


Unbreakable

by Nymeria578



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, Crime Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender Issues, Homophobic Prejudices, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, Knotting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Post-His Last Vow, References to murder-suicide, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 111,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives in a changed world where Omegas has been declared extinct. Twenty years ago a deadly virus ravaged the globe, but only the rare gender was affected and, over the course of years, the world lost its most precious treasures. Only a few survived, living hidden and keeping the governments in the dark about their existence. Too many died in the hands of scientists in search of a cure, and their faith has been shattered.</p>
<p> Sherlock is one of them, always looking out to not reveal his true gender when suddenly ghosts of his past catch up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Extinction

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that English isn’t my first language, so I hope you forgive me my silly mistakes of the first chapter because it isn’t beta’d. From the second chapter onwards the lovely LaLunaBitch took over as beta-reader to erase my grammatical issues.
> 
> I’ll update biweekly. If you want to catch up with me, you find me on [Tumblr](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) as well.
> 
> And last but not least: this is an Omega Verse fic, so I assume most of you followed a tag or searched explicitly, but for those who didn’t I recommend reading [Here](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega) first to not get any nasty surprises of particular anatomical facts and psychological aspects.

He looked at the telly with grim eyes, his chin lifted defiantly at the familiar face in the last row behind the podium. Just for a split-second he thought Mycroft Holmes had the secret ability of locking eyes with his little brother even through the transmittance of a channel, looking straight into the camera. Perhaps the older brother knew very well that Sherlock would be watching.

Finally the speaker appeared at the podium, brought into focus by the news channel. It was the Prime Minister, a man in his fifties, black hair with graying strands at the sides. Apparently he was nervous, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as the man brushed creases off his black jacket, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. Body language was so simple to read, and the detective leant back in his leather armchair, folding his legs and putting steepled fingers to his lips in his impious fashion. He knew that the Prime Minister had no news as he adjusted the height of the microphone, otherwise he would have appeared more confident.

Clearing his voice, the head of Her Majesty’s Government began his speech, “It has been to the day twenty years ago when our first Omega died due to _Morbus_.” He paused, letting the heaviness of the sentence sink in, and Sherlock rolled once again with his eyes.

_Dull!_ He was even inclined to switch off the telly. Yet his finger hovered over the red button of his remote, scrutinizing Mycroft in the back row as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Even his older brother was annoyed by the opening of the speaker’s hypocrisy. He snorted mirthlessly at the realization that blood was thicker than water, and despite their silly feud they agreed more often than not.

“Down to the present day,” the Prime Minister resumed after his dramaturgical interlude, “We have lost over one billion Omegas worldwide to this frightful sickness. Every attempt to save them failed shamefully. To this day, we failed to invent an effective vaccine to fight the virus. We failed to decode their DNA which is too complex compared to Betas or Alphas, so we even failed to accomplish reproductive cloning as well.” He swallowed, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, “Today we honor those Omegas who died in the effort to find a cure for the science, and we commemorate all Omegas we had once, and are now gone. Our society has changed since then, living in a world without Omegas …”

The screen went suddenly black as Sherlock’s finger decided to press the red button on the remote. “Idiot!” He scowled at the now absent image of the Prime Minister. Unfolding his long legs, he stood up and walked to the window. Baker Street was his home for five years now, and every day he glanced down, observing the cobweb of London’s street right in front of him – his self-proclaimed battleground. _People are just so blind_. Like little ants they pursued their daily business. The streets were still crowded but this would dwindle within the next fifty years. Without fertile Omegas the world’s population would soon drop by sixty percent as it was estimated by the World Health Organization. Female Betas with a conception probability of lower than three percent were nowhere near enough as fertile as Omegas.

He took a step back, his hand curling around the delicate neck of his violin, fingers trailing the distinctive texture of each string. The violin was always a distraction, a welcome distraction. Even John liked it whereas Sherlock had assumed the day they met, that his potential flatmate would feel uncomfortable with it. But then, John had surprised him in so many ways, he couldn’t even consider the violin an exception. He placed the instrument between his chin and shoulder and set the bow to play. A long-drawn deep tune pervaded the flat of 221B, betraying Sherlock’s brooding mood as he desperately tried to resist opening the well locked door in the farthest corner of his mind palace.

Yet he lost his battle of self-restraint, and the memory of his dying father nineteen years ago popped involuntarily into his mind. The haggard Omega with graying hair always held lively features but in the end his eyes had shrunken into the sockets, his sharp cheekbones more prominent than necessary, and his skin painted in shades of gray. Pain chased his body for five days, and the helplessness of the physicians had made Sherlock furious; moreover he was mad with himself of not being able to offer help. It was his mother who had called him, but Mycroft picked him up from public school, driving them to the hospital. The raging storm in his chest didn’t lessen when his mother stopped him from entering the room. The infection rate was simply too high as to take the risk. He had no other choice than to look through the window into the room, blinds open, portraying a suddenly old man who was fighting the battle of his life when he drew in his last breath.

That day Sherlock decided to take charge of his own destiny. Until that time every Omega needed to register at the Health Protection Agency, subdivision for gender issues once the secondary gender became apparent. As a late bloomer he presented at the age of fifteen, the year the first Omega died of Morbus. Always having an aversion to the registration policy, he let Mycroft in on his secret, later followed by his parents. His older brother had been able to procure hormone suppressants while Sherlock worked on a natural fragrance of Alpha scent. Since then his true gender lived hidden behind the walls of the Holmes’ estate. Yet the fear of an infection clung to the whole family and proved evidence the day Sherlock’s father got sick.

As by a miracle Sherlock stayed healthy, mocking the infection rate. And now it almost didn’t matter anymore because there were barely any Omegas left. He knew by informants of roughly fifty Omegas worldwide. They lived hidden, afraid their government would find them to perform experiments in reproductive cloning or breeding when in fact it was well known that all Omegas in the hands of the scientists died eventually. When this news hit the public Omegas started to conceal themselves. But the governments got desperate and hired even headhunters to find the precious gender. Just within the last five years the waves calmed when it was officially announced that Omegas had become extinct.

After a while Sherlock stopped in the middle of his play, opening his eyes as he noticed a soft drumming sound while small droplets speckled the window. Omegas were regarded as assets since thousands of years without any change in the system; a nation with many Omegas could guarantee a healthy economy. A nation without Omegas would soon collapse economically – too many old people and lesser young people. As a result of this a disturbing high amount of human trafficking arose shortly after the outbreak. In the face of this new reality mankind showed his filthy abyss.

Putting down the bow, he heard the buzzing sound of his mobile. Lestrade had sent him a string of messages in the last thirty minutes while Sherlock ignored them because he wasn’t in the mood of facing anybody. Unfortunately, Greg Lestrade could sometimes be very persistent, and he had switched from texting to calling.

“Oh for God’s sake,” he swore under his breath, the violin following the bow in the case. It took him two long strides to the coffee table where his phone broke the silence of 221B.

“Sherlock?” A raspy voice sounded through the receiver.

“What do you have?” Sherlock greeted, not caring about courtesies. Surely, the DI was stuck in a case and needed the help of the consulting detective.

“I… um…” Although they knew each other for a long time, Lestrade felt always sheepish when he needed to ask Sherlock for advice on a case, “There’s a murder which looks a bit odd for my taste, male Alpha with a slashed throat. No hints of fingerprints or footprints which could be traced back to the murderer. The place is reeking dreadfully, and I’m not so sure it’s only the Alpha’s body.”

Now that was interesting. Lestrade, a Beta, usually didn’t have such an exquisite nose. “Where?” He just asked, and the DI gave him the address.

Shrugging into his black Belstaff coat, he stepped out into the chilly rain which implied the promise of the upcoming spring; winter giving way for the muddy season. A shudder shook his body, and Sherlock pulled the woolen collar up while he hailed a cab. He took a seat in the back of the black car, fishing his mobile out of a pocket to send a message.

_Could need an Alpha doctor for medical advice. – Sherlock Holmes._

He didn’t have to wait for long as a soft buzz indicated the incoming message.

_Are you sick? – John Watson_

_Not me. But the dead Alpha in Lestrade’s case suffered a tremendous amount of blood loss. – Sherlock Holmes._

_Then it’s a bit late for a medical advice, isn’t it? – John Watson._

Now Sherlock didn’t hold back his trait of exuberant eye rolling.

_Don’t argue! Will you come? – Sherlock Holmes._

_Of course. – John Watson._

Slowly a giddy excitement set the pit of his stomach aflutter while he typed the address for his friend. He wasn’t just quite sure whether this happened due to the prospect of seeing John again, or solving a crime with John. _Damn my nature_. He cursed. Since John was married, and especially since the incident with Magnussen hadn’t seemingly shattered his marriage, Sherlock enjoyed every moment with his best friend. And he hated it.

Mary was in the last three weeks of her pregnancy, and John, always mindful, didn’t want to let her be alone for too long. He had even canceled a medical conference in Glasgow two weeks ago. The last time Sherlock had seen Mary, was on the tarmac next to a Cessna Citation 650 which should fly him to his undercover mission in Eastern Europe. Interestingly, an image of Moriarty popping up on every telly in Britain had saved his life. Almost four weeks later Sherlock concluded it delivered a fake, yet he still hadn’t figured out who initiated it. Mycroft was on top of his list.

The gray streets passed by as the taxi guided him through London for his destination. The rain had stopped again, and people were avoiding puddles on the pavement, while his mind crept constantly back to that day on the tarmac. There had been something he was missing, a nagging sensation manifesting in his mind when he had hugged Mary. A faint scent he couldn’t place. Unfortunately it was an undesirable side effect of the suppressants – it weakened his hyper olfaction.

“Here we are.” The sudden voice of the cabbie ripped him out of his musing, blinking at the reality of Scotland Yard cordoning a posh looking house near Hyde Park. He paid the man and stepped out of the warmth of the car, recognizing John waiting at the crime scene tape. Donovan had already circled him, for sure leaving some spiteful comments.

“And here comes the freak,” despite her venomous address the poison had lessened after his return from the dead.

“You were at the surgery,” Sherlock observed, ignoring the Beta police sergeant with her dark curly hair.

“Yes,” John looked confused, narrowing his eyes, “How do you know?”

Sherlock raised one brow in a mild mocking gesture, “Seriously, John? Otherwise you wouldn’t have arrived earlier than me.” It was a complete rational explanation, and John could have figured this out by himself, but sometimes Sherlock wasn’t sure, if his friend played stupid to indulge the detective. Yet Sherlock kept John in the dark about the true reason of his knowing.

Arms akimbo at the ignorance, Donovan wrinkled her nose, “I hope you brought a strong stomach. The whole house is reeking horribly.”

Indeed Sherlock had perceived the thick scent of the dead Alpha mingled with something different the moment he climbed out of the cab. It was a promise of what might await them inside the house. John lifted his nose into the air to sniff carefully, humming an agreement to the Beta’s statement. An Alpha’s olfactory sense wasn’t as sensitive as an Omega’s, yet it was enough for John to feel his lunch protesting in his stomach.

“Ready?” Sherlock watched John falter at the idea of going into the house. Horror, fear, nausea were the attributes best ascribed to his best friend right now as his pulse quickened, and John nodded hesitantly.

Entering the house, Sherlock looked closely at every single object, taking in every possible clue. At the end of the hallway several people in forensics blue coveralls crowded at the doorframe of the kitchen. Sherlock cursed mentally. Forensics was already at work, probably destroying every clue they would overlook. John and Sherlock passed the bathroom, door wide open, and the detective’s glance roamed over the interior. _Interesting_.

“Over here,” DI Lestrade waved them into the kitchen.

Before stepping over the threshold, John inhaled one more time deeply. He just didn’t know whether he needed to steel himself for the imminent picture of a murdered body or the disgusting stench which seeped in every pore of his skin.

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the corpse briefly but then let them wander through the kitchen. _No signs for a violent assault_. Everything was neat and clean, no overthrown chairs or table, no cluttered kitchen utensils except for the big cooking knife covered with a dark red which lay beside the victim.

“Well,” John panted for breath, the thick stench of death filling his nose, mouth and throat, “It’s pretty clear how he died.” A huge slash from left to right gaped from the throat of the body, half of his windpipe showing a gruesome image. The already dried blood pooled around the victim’s head and torso. “I’d say he’s dead at least for the last twenty four hours.”

Sherlock nodded, and turned his attention to the DI with his cropped graying hair, “Did he live alone?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“According to the landlord, Mr. Miller here was the only tenant and lived alone, barely having any visitors.” Lestrade rubbed his stiff neck from too much work of the last week, handing over two pairs of nitrile gloves.

_Wrong!_

“We didn’t find any hints for a forced entry, nor did we find any fingerprints besides those of the victim."

“Because it was suicide,” Sherlock explained, sniffing carefully, “The stench seems to intensify at the first floor.” His eyes lingered on the staircase next to them, beautiful ornaments carved in a dark wooden handrail leading upstairs.

“Suicide?” The word escaped simultaneously Lestrade and John.

“Then the self-preservation instinct must’ve been very low,” John frowned, not questioning if the detective could be wrong. “It’s not common to cut his own throat when someone wants to commit suicide.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied tersely and headed for the staircase, pushing every urge of fear, every urge of wanting to flee aside. “Come on, John.”

His friend pulled a face and hesitated at the handrail, his fingers brushing the smooth wood. Sherlock knew that it wasn’t John’s fault of not wanting to go, but of not being able to go; it was sort of his own self-preservation instinct. Fishing a peppermint salve from his coat pocket, he threw the tube to his friend, and then headed without a blink upstairs. John looked after the billowing coat, his lips pressed to a thin line and wondering if his friendship would go so far as to follow Sherlock into that nauseating stench; peppermint salve aside, he would probably throw up nonetheless. Weighing his options, he sighed in the end, applying the creme between his nose and upper lip. Several intakes of deep breath filled his lungs until the feeling of queasiness faded. It helped if only a bit.

Forcing his foot onto the next step, and then the next and again, he found himself dragging reluctantly to the first floor. Tears started to sting his eyes at the mingled smell of peppermint and stench as John slowly realized that the extreme reek didn’t come from the Alpha downstairs, and he feared the moment Sherlock would find out the reason.

To the right of the upmost step was the bedroom. Despite the modern architecture the house’s furnishing betrayed an old-fashion taste by the tenant. A dark mahogany encircled the bed, the same red brownish hue which reflected the staircase as well as the other furnishing. The bed was neatly made. It seemed that Mr. Miller hadn’t slept at all in his bed for the nights.

“He’d worked at a bank, some major position,” Lestrade had found a paycheck on his nightstand beside the bed, revealing a huge income.

Sherlock hummed an agreement as he walked past the king-sized bed. Adjacent to the bedroom they found a second bathroom; nothing conspicuous. His look run over several products, musing loudly, “Why is the landlord so sure about Mr. Miller living alone?”

The DI caught up with the long strides of the consulting detective until he stood in the bathroom too, “What do you mean?”

“In the guest bathroom downstairs as well as in his private bathroom are several toiletries for women. There are even shampoo and shower gel for women.” Sherlock pointed to the shelf beside the bathtub.

“Maybe he had more visitors than the landlord had observed,” John tossed in, shrugging his shoulders.

“No,” Sherlock just replied and turned abruptly around, heading again for the hallway, “He didn’t live alone.”

“Why are you so sure?” John asked, shooting the bathroom one last pensive look.

“The stench!” The curt answer made John’s hair stand erect as goose bumps of horror rippled his skin.

The reek intensified even more as they crossed the hallway to the study. It was a small room although it seemed that it would have been bigger regarding the estimated ground plan. John flinched the moment he set a foot into the room, and Sherlock sensed the fear and revulsion of his friend. The study contained a Victorian desk, also made of mahogany, and a whole wall covered with bookshelves.

Sherlock tried to rein in his own burgeoning feelings of fright, taking a deep intake of breath through his mouth. With deliberate steps, he passed the desk ignoring any clues and stopped in front of the shelves. Running a gloved finger up and down at the wood which connected each shelf, he recognized that it wasn’t a one-piece furniture. His finger traced the small gap as he hunkered down, examining the red patterned Persian carpet. It seemed much-thumbed at the end where it adjoined the shelf.

With a careful movement he lifted the expensive carpet to uncover a thin but long scratch in the wood parquet, implying that the furniture must have been moved frequently. His head snapped back at the reddish shelf with lots of books about economy, “Help me, John.”

Together they took a stack of books from the shelf, placing them carefully onto the desk. Like this they were able to get a tight grip on the shelf and dragged it away from the wall. Save that there wasn’t a wall as they had assumed. Nearly stumbling over his own feet, John inhaled involuntarily a full bloom of the smell. He let go of the shelf, putting his arm in front of his face to protect himself against the unseen enemy, digging his nose as deeply as he could into the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock knew that his Alpha friend wasn’t of any use at the moment, and he wouldn’t blame him for it. The detective himself struggled at the effort to block out the stench. Of course an Alpha would have been more affected; all his senses screamed to protect of what lay hidden behind the shelves yet he failed because he came too late. John reacted purely by instinct while Lestrade just wrinkled his nose. With his olfactory sense the Beta wasn’t as emotionally inflicted as John was. “Help me,” Sherlock nearly ordered the DI.

Again they dragged and yanked at the shelf until they could slip by the furniture. Obviously the original study had been divided into two rooms by Mr. Miller. The second part didn’t have a window, the only light invading, came from behind them. Sherlock produced a small flashlight from his leather toolkit, the cone-shaped light skimming the room.

“Jesus,” Lestrade gasped, his hand involuntarily covering his mouth and nose as he saw from where the smell originated.

The room just held a bed and a nightstand with a lamp. John breathed through the fabric of his jacket in the hope of blocking off the scent, yet tears stung to his eyes as he recognized the frame of a thin female body on the bed.

“John,” Sherlock needed him to ask this question to prove his point to Lestrade, “How long is she dead?”

His friend winced visibly at the request. Yet he dragged his eyes to the woman; she was thin, if not skinny but in the middle a huge bulge showed that she had been pregnant. Her closed eyelids had already started to fall into the sockets. Postmortem lividity was still visible yet the spots began to fade at her arms gradually. All in all her skin betrayed a slight shimmer of green.

After a few minutes John averted his eyes, nausea rising in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he swallowed, “It’s not very accurate but according to the stench, and her overall impression I’d say she’s probably one week dead.” He didn’t want to go any closer let alone touch her.

Fortunately Sherlock wasn’t adamant about a closer examination as he turned to Lestrade, “Like I said: _suicide_.”

“I still don’t get it,” the DI shook his head.

“This woman,” Sherlock pointed at the body, “She died of Morbus.”

“What?” John asked, the word muffled through his jacket, oblivious to the fact that she had belonged to an extinct gender.

“She was an Omega, John.” Sherlock’s pale blue eyes locked with John’s dark blue widening eyes as realization hit him. “Omegas release a pungent smell due to hormonal shift when they die. It’s a warning for every Alpha. Morbus intensifies the smell – it’s an accompanying symptom of the disease. She died one week ago because she had Morbus. Most certainly Mr. Miller was bonded to his Omega. If such a bond breaks, there’ll be a seventy percent chance for the Alpha to commit suicide afterwards.”

“Shit,” Lestrade exhaled, “I thought the world had long lost all his Omegas.”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock spoke in a clipped tone, betraying his annoyance. But then, how would Lestrade know? Whirling around, he cupped gently John’s elbow, leading him out of the small room. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

On their way downstairs, John mused loudly, “That explains the brutal way Mr. Miller chose to end his life.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied deep in thought, fighting the urge just to run. He wanted to leave as fast as possible. There was too much a risk of contagion for him in this house. Without wasting time to have another look at the Alpha’s corpse, he headed for the front door. The first step outside loosened the pressing feeling on his chest. He inhaled shakily, perceiving the shift in the air from damp and reeking to dry and fresh, only the lingering wet scent of the earlier rain had clung to the trees.

John appeared beside him, mimicking his desperate need of sucking fresh air into his lungs. “I’ve never seen an Omega,” he confessed, and Sherlock snorted mentally an ironic laugh. With another deep breath, John turned around to watch Lestrade talk with the forensics team in the house. He knew that they needed to wait for the autopsy which would confirm Sherlock’s deduction in the end.

Donovan still waited at the police tape, lifting it for the detective and his blogger. “You look a bit paler than usual,” she twisted the knife in the wound.

While Sherlock ignored her again, John turned to counter, “If you would have seen what we just saw, you would be appalled either.” It was an emotional gush of words, betraying his Alpha trait of defending an Omega, even if she was dead.

As usually Sherlock lifted his right hand to flag a cab. On their way to Baker Street John tried to put the puzzle pieces together but recognized that he lacked a considerable knowledge of Omegas. _I’m a bloody doctor and don’t know a thing about them_ , he scolded at his mind. “Why do you believe they shared a bond?” He asked sheepishly in the hope he wouldn’t sound too ignorant. Sherlock dragged his unfocused eyes from the outside world to the reality of John beside him. “I mean,” he staggered, “She had been locked up in that room, right? Couldn’t it be that Mr. Miller as an Alpha held her captive?” It wasn’t uncommon that Alpha behaved irrationally in the presence of an Omega, especially when said Omega was in heat.

Sherlock looked bewildered at his friend, almost rolling his eyes, “It’s a myth, John,” he pointed flatly out, “Alpha’s don’t incarcerate Omegas because they don’t have any control of their instincts.” His eyes lingered on the cabbie mindfully as he lowered his voice, “Although I concede if the Alpha meets an Omega in heat, the Alpha might lose his composure but outside of heat they are just normal people, seeking comfort in a healthy relationship.” Involuntarily his first cycle as an Omega popped into his mind, and Sherlock averted his gaze disgusted. His eyes stared again unfocused into the distance before he resumed his explanation, “The Omega was pregnant which means Mr. Miller and his Omega lived together for quite a while. He was probably just afraid if someone would find out about his secret they would come and drag her into a lab for further studies. Since the outbreak of Morbus Omegas became aware of being laboratory rats in the hands of scientist, and henceforth they lived hidden.”

“Wait,” John blinked confused, “You think there are more Omegas? That they haven’t gone extinct?”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, “Who knows,” he put steepled fingers under his chin, “Today proved at least otherwise, didn’t it?”

As he hummed an agreement, John nodded. “Why do you know so much about them? Besides Omega’s anatomy during my study they hadn’t taught us anything about bonds or biochemical reactions of their bodies.”

“I had an Omega professor at Uni who was very willing to teach interested students all about the dwindling gender,” Sherlock lied.

John formed a silent _Oh_ in comprehension as the cab pulled over to the curb. Sherlock climbed out of the black car, retrieving his keys from the Belstaff’s pocket while John paid the cabbie. Without waiting for his friend Sherlock headed upstairs, leaving the door ajar as an invitation for his former flatmate. He shrugged out of his long coat, revealing his usual black two-piece suit, and sucked desperately the air of 221B in eager to forget the images of the afternoon. But it wasn’t possible as he realized that the smell clung to his clothes, to his hair and even to his sensitive skin. Wrinkling his nose, he fought the rising nausea back as he heard John’s footsteps approaching on the stairs. He always could bend his own will to whatever need he had, yet regarding his gender his façade began to crumble.

_There are still Omegas out there who are dying because of Morbus_. The thought made him slightly trembling, loosing every control over his physical composure. An inner agitation crept up his spine, and he noticed that he needed a shower or a bath preferably in antiseptic solution.

“You alright?” John’s sudden voice from behind made him jump. “You look quite pale suddenly.”

A reassuring hand reached out to grab Sherlock’s shoulder for closer examination as his friend stepped forward out of any possible touch. “I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied, teeth clattering as his adrenaline level dropped to normal, losing the _high_ state. He draped the Belstaff over his chair beside the desk almost making a show of how calm he was but John wasn’t to be fooled. When it came to a point of physical health the doctor had a sixth sense.

This time he grasped firmly Sherlock’s shoulder to force him to turn around. Beneath his fingers he felt the shivers of his friend’s body, and a deep concern spread, buried in John’s pit of his stomach since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s faking his own death. “Please Sherlock, you’re not fine at all.”

But the detective rolled his shoulder almost violently to shake of the warmth of John’s hand; too much was he afraid that John would figure something out. He took a sharp intake of breath, smoothing his features and squaring his shoulders to get rid of those hateful emotions, to get rid of John. “Like I said, I don’t need help. All I need is a shower to get the stench out of my hair,” he spat the words, glowering at John who recoiled instinctively, “Anyway, isn’t your wife waiting for you for dinner or something?”

John’s hands raised in a defending behavior, while he answered piqued, “Okay.” With that said Sherlock ignored his friend and stormed off to the bathroom.

As the door was slammed shut John’s hands dropped to his sides, flexing involuntarily. He looked down to his feet and puckered his lips, feeling offended at Sherlock’s snappish comment and rude behavior. His chin lifted defiantly again as he took a steadying breath. “Yeah, all right,” he spoke softly to the empty living room, his mouth twisted in pain at the dismissal, “I’m just your friend. And I was just offering help.” Then he clenched his teeth as disappointment sank in and a knot let his stomach convulse. Since Sherlock wouldn’t come out of the bathroom for a while, John contemplated his friend’s proposal, turned on his heel and left his former home.


	2. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m absolutely overwhelmed with all the positive feedback from you by leaving kudos and your lovely comments. Thank you so much!! 
> 
> A big thank you goes to the lovely [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) who beta-read the chapter to erase my non-native speaker related mistakes and helped out with suggestions when I was lost in translation :D
> 
> Due to the upcoming holidays I preponed the update for a week. Next update will be on January 1st or 2nd, 2015. Until then I wish you all a Merry Christmas :)

After he had left 221B a chilly breeze made John shiver, and he wrapped up his jacket, pulling the zipper up to his throat. For a moment he contemplated if he should take a taxi but decided against the idea eventually. He needed fresh air, and there was no rush to get home as quick as Sherlock’s suggestion implied.

Not far off from his former home, he decided to take the Baker Street tube station, relishing being amidst other people, mingling with the crowd and becoming _normal_ again. Since the incident with Magnussen, John realized that bit by bit, his life was enveloped by unusual occurrences. The day Sherlock opened John’s eyes to the truth about Mary he began to feel like a stranger in his own world.

He had always been anything but _normal_. After his medical study John joined the army, following them wherever they would send him, loving the thrill of the unknown. But then he got shot, never anticipating this in his ignorant assumption: a miscalculation. Broken in his own inability to live his chosen life, he was diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder. The only problem was that he didn’t have PTSD, at least not in common sense. Deep inside, he knew it all along, listening to his psychiatrist patiently but failing in the reality – until he met Sherlock.

Somehow, Sherlock had saved him. His dark secret of the cold metal in his desk’s drawer laid hidden, never intended for protection but salvation. Yet it didn’t matter anymore because Sherlock had turned John’s life upside down. He felt needed, although this need involved him once again in a surreal world of mysteries and criminals. John had loved it, and over the eighteen months he came to know the madman, something unspoken blossomed between them, something beyond friendship – at least John believed so. Sherlock, the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath whose unsocial manners chased people away who couldn’t keep his pace, attracted John like a magnet. _Normal_ was nowhere near enough an expression for his life with Sherlock. He never got bored anymore as John once explained Mycroft what it meant living with Sherlock Holmes. Ergo: _Normal is boring_. How appropriate.

Unfortunately his friend ended this life with a jump, and once again John was confronted with the truth of his inability to live as he wished. Instead of staying at 221B and continuing the work he had begun with Sherlock, John hid again behind a façade of normality. So he moved out, hoping to forget his friend while his shattered feelings pressed hotly on his chest and barely let him breathe. At some point he even wished to choke on that feeling just to make the pain stop. But as a coward he neither stopped nor pursued the work but ran away, seeking a new life in a new flat and his job as a doctor without Sherlock.

He functioned for just over a year, his miserable life empty and dull, as Sherlock would have put it. But once again another turn-about changed his whole life again as Mary applied to his surgery as a nurse. She was capable of giving his life a new direction. In the end she didn’t just give him a new direction into normality but a steady life itself. Mary took over most of John’s decisions. It was convenient, not to think too much about certain things, like a huge burden taken from his shoulders. _That was a normal life_. At least he believed it until his world was again cluttered with chaos when Sherlock simply stated, “Not dead.”

When the first wave of anger had washed over him, John couldn’t stand to hate his friend with his alluring nature. So he forgave him; not entirely but to a certain point. His feelings were in turmoil, torn between his normal life and Sherlock’s extraordinary world. Interestingly, Mary encouraged John from the very first time she met his friend to resume their unusual work, their unusual friendship which everybody else considered to be a relationship although they were both Alphas.

When John realized he could have both lives, he adhered to the idea of marrying Mary Morstan. And then came the day both worlds collided in Magnussen’s office. Even though John said that he forgave his wife at Mrs. Holmes’ house, he couldn’t give her the one and only thing he would only give Sherlock – trust.

To a certain degree he understood her motivation, but if she hadn’t been pregnant, John didn’t know how he would have reacted. He hoped that he could forgive her like he forgave Sherlock but it wasn’t that simple. As Sherlock had explained, Mary was an assassin. It wasn’t even the fact that she had killed people – John had killed people too. It was the mere fact that her lies started the very moment they met at the surgery. Her whole being was a lie, and he still didn’t know the true Mary Morstan.

Surprised by Sherlock’s behavior, the detective left John free to decide whether to read the contents of the memory stick or not. As an unwritten rule, it was always Sherlock’s way, but not this time. John often complained that Sherlock approached cases in his own way, yet the only time where he wished for the detective to take up the reins, Sherlock backed out. John recognized the emotional decision for the otherwise rational detective.

Consideration wasn’t Sherlock’s best trait, yet he stepped back, and John chose not to read about the past lives of his wife. Before throwing the memory stick into the fire, he contemplated a lot about the right thing to do. He feared that if he would read the content, he would loath his wife as she had predicted herself. Self-doubts threatened to break him. But above all the disappointment and hate towards the lies of his wife, he felt bad for their unborn daughter. He remembered looking at the black and white ultrasound images of the tiny human being, resembling a gummy bear all those weeks ago, and he finally came to the decision to destroy the hateful object which seemed to consume his life once again.

As it was already evening, John met the rush hour, standing the whole ride in the crowded train. Looking around, he tried to read the people like Sherlock often did, but failed. Well, he saw the man beside him wearing a wedding ring, but how could he be sure he didn’t cheat on his partner? He sniffed carefully. _A Beta_. No traces of another gender, so he was married to another Beta.

Suddenly his mobile buzzed in his left jacket pocket. Within a crowded train it wasn’t so easy to move, but somehow he fished the phone out of his black jacket, wiping over the screensaver.

_I’m sorry. – Sherlock Holmes._

John huffed a bitter laugh. Sherlock rarely apologized which meant that he acknowledged his overreaction in the flat. Yet John wasn’t in the mood to write anything back. His anger had weakened to a small flicker of disappointment, but John wanted to let him dangle a little while longer.

Before he jumped from St. Bart’s roof, Sherlock always needed to be in motion. Quietness or calmness was boring – dull – and he hated it, being bored, fearing his mind would wither. After his return all those months ago, John had noticed the shift in his friend’s mood. He seemed more settled and accepted friends which made John wonder of what had happened during those two years of his undercover mission, but he didn’t dare to ask. Of course there still lingered that odd kind of humor in that genius, and John more than often became the victim of Sherlock’s jokes.

The train called at his station, and John stepped off the carriage, heading for the stairs. A few streets later he stood in front of his home. Twilight had already painted the sky in dark shadowy hues, purple clouds passing by while John lifted his face to see the light in the windows, indicating that Mary waited for him.

After Sherlock’s rude behavior, and the disturbing case of two people who died together because of their deep love for each other, one of John’s most frequent questions popped once again involuntarily into his mind: why could he forgive Sherlock but not Mary?

 _Why indeed do I stay and torture my life? Am I living a lie because I don’t want to disappoint my unborn child? What do I teach my child then? Just another bunch of lies._ He always came to this conclusion, and he hated himself for this.

Nausea loosened the knot in his stomach at the realization: he plainly couldn’t forgive Mary because he lived her lie of a normal life while Sherlock never pretended to live his life as a lie. With Sherlock, John realized, he would be free, plunging into their unusual work and friendship, stopping the lies of normality.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled a sigh before opening the front door. _Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair_ , Sherlock’s words echoed in his mind. Only that there wasn’t a love affair, was it?

His wife greeted him from the sofa with a book in her hand, her big round belly concealed by a warm woolen blanket. She put the book aside and beamed at her husband, which sent a pang of guilt down his spine. Although he wouldn’t forgive her for the lies, he had decided to stay with her after living with Sherlock, once again tending to his bullet wound and thinking about his future. It had been an odd time. 221B always felt like home, yet Sherlock deliberately avoided John, especially when it came down to John’s life with Mary. Maybe he had considered his sociopathic status as not the best address for advice.

“How was work?”

“I had to leave the surgery two hours earlier because Sherlock found a case,” he would never lie to Mary.

“Oh,” her brows shot up. That was the reason he came so late. Yet beside that interjection, she didn’t say anything further. Even though she had always encouraged John’s and Sherlock’s friendship, Mary acted irritated whenever they met for a case since she had shot John’s best friend. It seemed she was worried that every time John saw Sherlock, he was reminded of that incident, reminded of her betrayal.

While John shrugged out of his jacket, he observed every nuance of his wife’s expression from the corner of his eyes. She didn’t seem to notice his observations, always underestimating her husband but never overestimating his best friend. “Actually it wasn’t really a case because the victim committed suicide. Strange case though.”

A little worried about her husband’s aloofness, she draped the blanket over the armrest, swinging her legs over the edge of the sofa clumsily to get up. “What do you mean?” She asked, crossing the living room for the kitchen to prepare dinner.

“The man who killed himself had been a bonded Alpha. He committed suicide because his Omega died a few days ago.”

Mary returned with a small cutting board in her hand at the door, “What?” She asked in disbelief.

“The Omega lived hidden in the house and died of Morbus.” He toed his shoes off his feet, “Can you imagine? There are still living Omegas out there.”

For a moment Mary stood very still, her fingers gripping the cutting board, her mouth pressed to a thin line. “That’s –,” she began with a hoarse voice, “That’s awfully depressing. You alright?”

John had expected any reaction by his wife, but not this. She was rarely empathetic. But then he remembered the gender he was referring to. Any Alpha would have been affected; even Sherlock had been as he remembered the pallor of his friend. “I’m fine,” he echoed Sherlock’s words. When she didn’t move, her eyes unfocused, staring into forgotten memories, John fidgeted slightly, “Mary?”

With a snap her look cleared, and she locked slate blue eyes with him, one hand dropping to her belly, “It was just the baby.” Without waiting for any answer from her husband, she turned around, resuming preparing dinner. John remained in the living room, his left hand flexing at the obvious lie. During all weeks of her pregnancy he never felt the little girl nudge. Every time when his warm hand stroked over the roundness of his wife, there was only the firmness of her belly – nothing more – even when she had kicked shortly before. Stubborn tears stung to his eyes as he needed to acknowledge to himself that like this, he failed to bond to his unborn daughter. Another pang of guilt hit him as he further realized that it wasn’t only his fault but also his wife’s. Mary hadn’t allowed closeness – physically as well as mentally – since she had shot Sherlock. Without doubt she was in the same boat with him, yet she appeared to be rather a distant companion than a spouse. John always assumed as soon as the baby was born that change would happen again; that they would overcome those difficult times. But now he knew better. It was like the blurry vision at the corner of his eyes cleared, and the tunnel view finally faded.

“Mary?” He sounded rather surprised than asking when he stepped into the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” she spoke in a clipped voice, betraying the lie by patronizing her husband once again.

John took a deep breath, already feeling the tight pressure easing off his chest as he made his selfish decision, “I’m going to file for divorce.”

His wife stopped chopping the vegetables, and John’s eyes lingered a moment too long on the big kitchen knife, a thought forming in his mind. Mary, an accomplished assassin, hadn’t even denied her psychopathic tendencies, and now John told her he was leaving. And then he realized that he truly didn’t know his wife. Would she turn around, and try to murder him, acting in the heat of the moment? Or would she craft and execute a meticulous plan of vengeance? Or would she just leave him? Once again he recognized that he didn’t trust his wife anymore, wishing for his gun tucked behind the waistband at the small of his back as tension crept up his spine.

Mary didn’t look up from the cutting board. While the words sank in, she steadied her breathing. “Is that it?” She asked almost softly, putting the knife down to John’s relief. Her hands curled tightly around the edge of the kitchen counter in the effort to brace herself, pushing her weight upward and straightening her back to save the last remnants of her dignity. John kept silent. What else could he say? He had already made his decision, and this time it was the right one.

When her husband didn’t reply, she waddled past him, heading for the second floor. Blinking at the abandoned dinner, John was confused by Mary’s response but braced himself for several nights on the sofa. He could always leave, making room for Mary to get a clear mind. 221B always held a bedroom for him. But he shoved that thought aside. He didn’t want to seek comfort of his former home. He wanted to find his own way this time, not being dependent of someone else. Either way it wasn’t possible to go back in time to almost three years ago. Sherlock as well as John had changed. They were still friends, yet their lives had chosen different paths. It’s probably the reason Sherlock had avoided him back then when the detective needed physical treatment while John sought mental comfort. They would need time to stitch up those old wounds. For a very long time John wanted to have a clear head to live his own life, and this was his opportunity.

Creaking steps on the wooden staircase ripped him out of his thoughts. Mary had packed a duffle bag. At the front door she shrugged into her red coat when John finally found the courage to ask, “Where are you going?” At least she was heavily pregnant. If someone should go it was him, and he saw himself mentally packing his rucksack already.

“That’s none of your privilege anymore,” she answered coolly, after slipping into her shoes, and without looking back she closed the front door.

***

Two days had passed since they found the dead Omega, and now Sherlock was confronted with the truth of two other Omegas who had died of Morbus as he opened the newspaper, skimming through the lines – a female Omega from the United States and a male Omega from Russia. _Coincidence?_ The conclusion popped unwanted into his mind. Strangely enough he hadn’t heard of any Omega dying of Morbus within the last five years. And now even the public knew about it. Undoubtedly it would trigger uproars worldwide and fuel the chase for hidden Omegas yet again.

A ring at the doorbell made him look up from his reflections. He frowned at the door while Mrs. Hudson opened the front door as a matter of routine. “Oh, hello Mary,” he caught the landlady greeting John’s wife but obviously John didn’t accompany her.

 _Weird_. Heavy steps climbed the seventeen stairs of 221B. Sherlock folded the newspaper, crossing the room to open the door. “Mary,” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Since their meeting on the tarmac several weeks ago he hadn’t seen her again, and now she turned up at his home without John. Her short blond hair was tousled, and she looked worried. _No, not only worried but also angry_.

“Sherlock,” she greeted curtly back with a nod, entering the flat. Out of her breath she looked tired and headed for the sofa, not bothering to shrug out of her red coat – an angry contrast to the green couch with its black and white wallpaper behind.

“Tea?” There was still something about her, he couldn’t quite place. It was too subtle – a small gesture in her movement, her way of walking and tiny fragments of her shifting scent.

She shook her head, her expression softening a bit as her shoulders slumped defeated, “John’s filing for divorce.”

Some seconds passed, and Sherlock realized that he was holding his breath when he opened his mouth to breathe in the needed oxygen. Suddenly his mind raced through several occasions where John might have implied something to him but when it depended on his own emotional state he was rather blind than sharp. “I…” he began, struggling for words, “He hasn’t said anything to me.”

Mary raised one eyebrow skeptically, “It happened out of the blue when he came home two days ago. He came from that case with the dead Omega.” Interestingly, her voice didn’t waver a bit and sounded rather calculated as if it was a reproach.

“We haven’t talked since then. We…” again he stuttered at putting the right words together, “We had a slight variance.”

Her other eyebrow shot up too, recognizing the undeniable truth. “You and John,” her voice had now at least the decency to sound hoarse, “Did you read the memory stick?”

Another gush of Mary’s scent filled his nose at her emotional outburst. She had tried to maintain her façade but bit by bit, it began to crumble and along with it, new impressions of her scent made his nostrils flare. An agitated feeling settled in his stomach: Fear? _No_. Excitement? _No_. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he considered that it must have been a mix of both, and he needed to suppress the urgent compulsion of just fleeing as his nature dictated it. He swallowed the lump in his throat, “No we didn’t read the stick. John has burned it as you know.”

A shift in her eyes made his hair stand upright, goose bumps running down his neck at the cold and calculated look. “But you’re always so clever. And you tell me that you haven’t made a copy?”

If Mary hadn’t been pregnant, he would have tasted the danger on his tongue. She eyed him like a predator, hunting their prey. “Yes,” he answered, squaring his shoulders. His pale blue eyes were forced to hold the contact with Mary’s glacial stare. “We agreed that everything regarding you John would decide. And he decided to destroy the stick.”

Another shift of her scent irritated yet reassured him. The tense aggressiveness slowly faded from her shoulders. “Then why can’t he forgive me?” Mary had always lived in her egocentric world, never questioning her actions and even after the debacle with Magnussen, she expected John would have forgiven her entirely. Her inner psychopath simply didn’t understand as well as Sherlock didn’t understand at first when he sought forgiveness yet received cold guardedness by John.

“I think he can’t live your lie.” It was a simple statement but contained the whole truth of their relationship, “And that’s why he can’t forgive me my lie, too.” Most of the time Sherlock was oblivious to emotions yet he could read them very well in others. John might have searched for comfort during his little hiatus from Mary, but at the same time he had held Sherlock at arm’s length, being afraid to get involved with another lie. Without doubt, John trusted Sherlock with his life but the emotional foundation of their friendship lay in shards at their feet. His friend had been faced with two lies, and he needed to determine which lie he could forgive. Until now, Sherlock had been persuaded that it was Mary’s lie, and it nearly broke him, so he even killed Magnussen in the hope to get wrenched away from John one more time.

Open-mouthed, Mary pushed herself up from the sofa, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock who averted his eyes. She took a deep intake of breath, “And yet you’re still lying to him.”

At this his eyes snapped up again. He watched her brush creases from her coat when suddenly it made all sense, “As well as you?” He didn’t want to sound it like a question but the confusion hit him too obviously as her scent reached his olfactory sense – an Alpha scent.

His look dropped to her round belly, eyes widening. Realization struck him hard at the extent of Mary’s lie: an Alpha couldn’t conceive a child, it was anatomically impossible. Mary snaked her arms around her belly, protecting the empty lie, “I was losing him, when you returned, Sherlock.” His eyes widened when he sensed the meaning behind her words, “A wedding or a marriage doesn’t stop people to leave their partners.”

“Obviously a baby doesn’t either.” His voice stayed calm but his eyes spoke of deep disappointment. He had put confidence in John about destroying the memory stick but now he wished he would have read it before his friend threw it into fire.

“Wow,” Mary huffed a cynical laugh, “One would call that a stalemating situation.”

Frowning, Sherlock admitted that his friend’s wife was right. If Sherlock told John about the lie of Mary’s pregnancy, she might easily tell her husband Sherlock’s lie about his gender. The only difference was her lie included an expiration date. His eyes drifted to her belly, imagining John’s feelings when he would learn the truth. “Will you tell him?”

She bent forward to fetch her purse from the sofa, betraying a lighter movement, and shrugged, “It’s none of your business anymore.” And with that said, she left.

Within Sherlock’s chest raged a storm of emotions, something he rarely allowed. It felt like a hot and heavy pressure, gripping tightly around his torso and making him breathless. He cast the blame on his gender, causing him to be engulfed in the cloudy fog of sentiments now and then due to hormonal shifts. And he hated it. Care or love – he suppressed it for so long because it got him involved in the end. It was never the fear of a deathly disease that made him cringe at the mention of being an Omega, but being a captive of his own body. He managed to always steel his mind, yet ultimately the hormones were the one thing which dictated his life. There was scarcely anything he could do about it as he had painfully experienced during his first heat when he lost every control.

Repulsed at the memory he averted his eyes from the door, dragging himself to his leather armchair. At last that was the true reason for faking his death. Bit by bit he had gotten used to his flatmate. John always treated him as someone special; not in a negative meaning like Sebastian Wilkes or Sally Donovan had originally approached him, but in a very positive and encouraging manner. Partly Sherlock’s aloof and arrogant behavior was attributed to Mycroft’s education, partly was his comprehensive intellect. Most of the people were just boring, but not John. He couldn’t compete with Sherlock’s knowledge, but he had been able to drag the detective out of his shell and show him the warm world of friends. Somehow, he became Sherlock’s heart until his own began to work in conformity with his mind. Yet Moriarty had also showed him that having a heart in his business betrayed a weakness which reminded him of his older brother’s words, _All lives end, all hearts are broken_. _Caring is not an advantage_.

To save John, as well as Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, he needed to jump from the roof of St. Bart’s. Well, it was only the half-truth. It had also been a way of cutting John off from his life. If he had given in to the temptation of revealing his gender to the Alpha he pictured as a possible mate, the chances of blowing his covers would have been much higher. Not to mention that he still might die of Morbus and the case of poor Mr. Miller demonstrated mercilessly John’s fate if he got involved.

He put steepled fingers in front of his mouth, brushing the sensitive skin slightly, and closed his eyes. Even though he allowed deep feelings for John, Sherlock confessed, an uncertain density enveloped him when he thought of giving up his self-restraint in the form of suppressants.

But Mary pressed her point. They were in a stalemating situation, and before long she would gain the upper hand. The choice of switching her gender came most certainly with the decision to retire as an assassin and live a normal life. Yet there was something today she had never unveiled hitherto – a part of her true A.G.R.A. – and Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to take it. Somehow, he had gotten the feeling of underestimating Mrs. Watson.

No, he needed to tell John the truth before she would put another deep cut to their friendship. Torturing his bottom lip, he contemplated uncertainly the only way he knew how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	3. Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again a huge thanks to the wonderful LaLunaBitch for beta-reading this chapter, although we were in the middle of holiday season :)
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments!
> 
> Next update will be in in two weeks.

Sherlock bent over the corpse on the autopsy table, sniffing as if he might be able to detect the reason of her death just by his olfactory sense. The morgue’s scent of disinfectant and moldy dampness implied simple death filled his nose and made it difficult to distinguish each smell. _Clostridium botulinum_ was written in the autopsy report. The victim, a female Alpha, paid frequent visits to a cosmetic surgeon but the report stated that the injection needle presumably hit no deathly area with the neurotoxin. Botox – Sherlock didn’t understand people who inject a toxin into their system because of their vanity.

John’s head appeared on the opposite side of the slab, narrowing his eyes at the tiny punctures on the woman’s forehead, “Found anything?”

Straightening his back, Sherlock looked resentfully for a moment at John but then turned to Molly, “I need to know what she ate before she died.”

“Er,” Molly skimmed through the report, “Pasta.”

Lestrade had asked Sherlock for help ten hours ago. They found the victim in her flat without any clues of forced entry. Her boyfriend came home that afternoon and found her dead on the sofa. Of course Lestrade’s first suspicion fell to the boyfriend, but as usual, he was wrong. Sherlock scanned the flat once again with closed eyes, mental images arranging in his mind palace. A can of peeled tomatoes had been thrown into the bin to which no one had paid enough attention. _Oh_ , his eyes flew open.

“Botulism,” he explained as he retrieved his mobile from his coat pocket, typing Lestrade at once. “The victim died because she ate peeled tomatoes from a can which was most likely tainted.”

_The woman died of poisoning. Get the can from her bin and let Molly check for botulin toxin. It has nothing to do with her boyfriend. Check his alibi around lunch. This was an accident. – Sherlock Holmes._

He waited a minute, but couldn’t restrain himself from writing another message.

_And next time get me a real case. Neither suicides nor accidents. – Sherlock Holmes._

When he finished torturing his mobile with a frantic typing, he let it slide into his pocket again, turning abruptly to John, “Why haven’t you called back?”

His friend chewed on the hidden reproach as ice blue eyes met John’s steel blue, acknowledging that this conversation was inevitable. The last week John expertly avoided any meeting with Sherlock. He needed the time to clear his head. But when Sherlock sent him a message today, he didn’t want to resist any further; his friend deserved the truth. “I needed to tie up a few loose ends,” he sighed gloomily.

Sherlock ignored the brooding mood of his friend, his anger bubbling up at the vague explanation, “Like filing for divorce?”

Molly’s eyes widened at the cynical question. This could end nasty, she thought, flinching at the snappy tone of the detective. “You know,” she recoiled carefully, heading for the door, “I’ll get us a cup of coffee.” It was nearly midnight, and they were all in need of a nice caffeine rush.

When Sherlock’s question struck John, he folded his brows pensively, looking down at his clothes for any clue betraying his decision. Literally stripped naked under the scrutinizing glare of the detective, John recognized why he had waited so long to tell this his friend. “Enlighten me,” his voice dripped of sarcasm, “No ironed underwear?” Oh, he could play the same game Sherlock liked to play, and give him a small taste of his bitter medicine of not telling.

Blinking at the innuendo, Sherlock went for the blunt truth. “No,” his otherwise rich baritone betrayed an edge of sharpness, “Mary showed up at 221B last week and accused me of interfering.”

“That’s ridiculous.” _Well, partly_.

Sherlock’s anger slowly faded to a dull aching in the pit of his stomach. “Where do you live now?” Somehow Sherlock assumed that Mary kicked John out of the house, forced to stay at a hotel.

“I’m still living there. Mary’s left.” He shook his head in disbelief, shrugging his shoulders, “I have no idea where she is right now. I even asked David, but he insisted on not telling me because it was Mary’s wish, so I left the divorce papers with him. He promised to pass them on.”

There was no need for Sherlock to ask why his friend had changed his mind in the end, so he just said, “I’m sorry.” And he truly was, realizing for the first time how it must have stung John to not let his friend in on a plan. As his best friend, Sherlock had expected that John would have called him at least, yet he maintained the silence. It hurt – not only the sudden awareness of disappointment but also the observation of pain in his friend’s eyes.

“Don’t be,” John didn’t want pity, “It’s better that way. At least, _I_ feel better.”

Sherlock watched his friend with intense eyes. Of course it cut both ways. That was the reason John had decided to save his marriage in the first instance. He fell in love with his wife during a difficult time. Once there had been love, and he had hoped to find it again, even after the revelation of that enormous lie. But Sherlock knew John better. He knew that John could never truly forgive his wife, even though it had been love once. That was Sherlock’s most appreciated character trait of John, the reason Sherlock trusted him with his life – his unbroken faith in the world without losing the sense of reality.

His stern expression faded as Sherlock noticed how his friend relaxed under the scrutiny of the detective, the weathered lines of his face softening made him look so much younger. A small smile curled around Sherlock’s lips, “Dinner?”

A laugh bubbled up John’s throat at the mood swing of his friend, “Starving.”

It wasn’t so easy to find a restaurant that wasn’t closed yet at this hour of the night, but Sherlock always knew a place where someone was in his debt. The restaurant was empty, beside a detective with his blogger and another guy who watched them with curious eyes. As always Sherlock had ordered nothing, and as always John had huffed at their dinner with the lack of his friend eating.

“I’d take some of your pasta,” Sherlock grinned cheekily at John’s choice of food.

“That’s called theft,” John pointed out flatly, folding his arms, “You’ve solved the case. Eat something. No necessary transport.”

“That wasn’t even a case,” Sherlock’s voice dripped of boredom. They were silent for a while. The waiter brought the order of the other man, leaving for the kitchen just to reappear with a big plate full of pasta and tomato sauce. “Hopefully the cook didn’t use a can for the sauce,” Sherlock mumbled with one raised eyebrow, while John kicked his friend under the table at the insolent comment, yet he needed to stifle a giggle.

John defended his cherry tomatoes against the full force of Sherlock’s fork but lost the battle. “You know,” he started after swallowing, “Statistics say there are only one or two fatalities due to botulism.”

“I guess you’re safe then,” Sherlock chewed on his victory, any table manners forgotten.

“You mean, _We_ ,” John patted the greedy fork of his friend away, “With the new victim we count three.”

“What are you going to do next?” The question came so out of the blue that John nearly choked on his spaghetti.

“Finish my plate, and then ask for something stronger than wine,” John swirled the wine in his glass.

Sherlock rolled his eyes fretfully, leaning closer over the table, “You know what I mean. Don’t avoid my question.”

His plate was still half filled with food, but John suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore. Poking at the last tomato with his fork, he struggled for words, “I have no idea.” He paused, and Sherlock waited patiently, giving him time to think about his future, “I just hope Mary won’t go into a big divorce case.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to a thin line, biting the inside of his cheek to seal his honesty. The unspoken truth of Mary’s lie hovered over his head like Damocles’ sword. He would reopen old sores of his friend with this gruesome truth, and in reciprocating John’s feelings it would leave him in emotional pain too. _Either way John will find out about the baby, so it doesn’t matter who will tell him the truth_. For the moment Sherlock was simply too much a coward, gritting his teeth at his own failure.

“The only assets we have are the house and the car,” John continued. “And I don’t want either of those. They’d remind me too much of another wrecked life.”

They sat there for a while, neither of them speaking. Sherlock sensed John’s meaning of his broken life with him before he faked his death, yet he needed to ask with a shy smile, “Your bedroom’s still vacant.”

John looked up from the plate to find uncertain pale blue eyes. That was strange. Usually Sherlock could read everybody, but he seemed precarious about his suggestion. _Is he nervous?_ “I don’t know.”

Another long silence passed, and John drained his red wine. The other guest stood up and bumped into John’s chair, circling the narrowly arranged tables, his eyes glowering at the two Alphas. “Excuse you,” John shouted after the tall man when he didn’t even apologize and left the restaurant.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed in his coat pocket, and he was indeed glad about the distraction, avoiding John’s curious glances about his own doubts. His thumb swiped over the display to read the message.

_You were right. The can’s walls were tested, and they found Clostridium botulinum. – Greg Lestrade._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course he was right. “Case solved,” he waved triumphantly the phone in front of John’s face.

“Great,” John smiled, then pointed his thumb backwards, “I need to go to the loo.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Sherlock replied, leaving enough money for dinner and a tip on the table.

The restrooms were clean but small like the whole restaurant. John threw cold water into his face, hoping to get a clear mind again. Sherlock’s question had thrown him off balance. He had considered that question often enough during the last week. On the one hand he wanted to live independently, putting some daylight between himself and both liars. But on the other hand he craved for the warmth of 221B, his former home. He felt safe there, and he missed Sherlock; their time together had been so limited recently. Lifting his face to lock his eyes with the reflection of his mirror image, he stared at the uncertainty literally screaming at him. If this was the face Sherlock saw, it was no wonder he kept the distance between them. Soon John would be a father, and he couldn’t imagine a child in 221B, even just for visits. Sherlock and kids were like fire and water.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to steady his composure. In the end a decision had to be made, but not know, and he shoved the thought aside, leaving the restrooms. When he passed the table, he noticed that Sherlock had already paid and headed for the front door. The chilly cold engulfed him at once, and he clung to his jacket, pulling the collar up. The street was empty as he looked for his friend. _Odd_. Sometimes he would be smoking a cigarette, but John didn’t see an ashtray. Then he heard a muffled sound from around the corner.

The alley extended into a dark nothing, the only light coming from a single street lamp of the main street behind John. He could see two shadows struggling until he detected the tall man from the restaurant slamming Sherlock roughly at the wall. The detective wasn’t helpless as it often seemed. He knew exactly where to launch his punches to free himself from the tight grip around his throat, coughing and choking at the release. The man with a height of almost 6,5 feet; he clearly yielded an advantage, yet the deliberate blows to the stranger’s kidneys made him yelp and tumble backwards. Within moment he felt cold metal kissing his temple.

“Don’t move,” John’s voice was calm and menacing. Although his pulse raced like the heartbeat of a running rabbit, yet no tremor betrayed the inner turmoil. In those moments, he knew he was dangerous, never hesitating to curl his index finger around the trigger to release the bullet.

“Bloody filthy Alphas,” the man spat, “Filthy _pack_.”

At first John didn’t sense the meaning but then it struck him, and he restrained himself from denying that he wasn’t gay. Two Alphas in a relationship were considered an abomination. When the virus broke out, and Omegas began to die the invective _pack_ arose for those who couldn’t conceive children in a partnership due to their anatomy; worse still for two Omegas which was prohibited by law. Obviously the man with his broad structure assumed that Sherlock and John were in a relationship. It was no wonder, so many others did but those were their friends who didn’t pass judgment on them.

Angry at the nasty address John pressed the muzzle even harder at the man’s temple, “Just leave,” he cocked his head, speaking through gritted teeth.

The man folded his arms, pressing his hands to his flanks where the punches of Sherlock still showed their effect. He grunted when he tore his head off John’s SigSauer P226R and stumbled in direction of the main street. Not before he vanished into the darkness around the corner, John didn’t dare to lower his weapon, head snapping to Sherlock. “You alright?” He put the weapon back behind the waistband of his jeans, obscured by his gray cardigan and jacket. Since Mary had left, he had retrieved it from the drawer of his bedroom, taking it along wherever he went.

Sherlock lifted his arm, wincing visibly at the effort as his shoulder had been shoved with full force to the cold brick wall. The man had been strong, and his blow had battered Sherlock to the wall like a puppet. His fingers carefully touched the side of his head, feeling a sticky warm fluid running to his ear.

Cautious hands cupped Sherlock’s face, and his eyes widened at the sudden gentle touch. John attentively turned his friend’s head for a closer inspection despite the darkness. “This needs treatment,” declared the doctor, brushing tentative fingers over the wound to palpate if the skull had any fracture. Gingerly John turned the head back to lock his shaded blue eyes with silvery glazed jewels, Sherlock fidgeting uncomfortably under the examining stare of his friend. But there was no escape, strong hands holding him in place. John checked his friend’s pupillary light reflex as good as possible in the semidarkness. And then he dropped one hand to lift his index finger in front of Sherlock’s face, moving it from left to right. The movement of his eyes still smooth made John exhale a sigh eventually as tension slowly faded from his overstrained muscles.

“I’m not going into hospital because of a scratch,” Sherlock broke the sensitive moment, preparing for an exuberant sulk.

John pursed his lips in slight disapproval but nodded in the end. “Alright,” he offered a helping hand to steady his friend if need be, “Baker Street then.” It was the only rational solution because it was nearest. Slowly Sherlock peeled himself off the brick wall and gladly gripped John’s arm as the world began to swirl around. After a few steps to the main street to flag a cab, he could walk alone again, yet a dull headache manifested behind his temple.

The drive didn’t last ten minutes, and they kept their comfortable silence. John’s thoughts swept back to that guy. He worked as a security guard according to his clothes, and his shift had ended recently so he took his dinner at that restaurant. _Filthy pack!_ The curse still echoed in his mind. John lowered his gaze to his laced fingers, contemplating that such a behavior was the exact reason he always denied himself. People might talk, and sometimes people could get nasty. It hurt, not only in physical pain but also mentally; he had more than often seen this struggle with his sister. During a case Sherlock often got minor scratches which needed to get patched up but since his friend had faked his death, John’s hair stood upright every time they blundered into a dangerous situation; the shock was still too profound.

John paid the cabbie when they arrived at 221B, a faint sensation of home creeping up his back, remembering all those cases when they came home late with a taxi, drunken with excitement at finding solutions for Scotland Yard. After John had climbed out of the cab, he ducked his head, reaching again for Sherlock. In fact he still felt a bit dizzy but refused the help this time as he walked to the front door in unerring long strides, retrieving the keys.

In the flat they shrugged out if their coats and jackets, and John headed for the bathroom. “Take a seat,” he ordered, pointing for a kitchen chair. In the bath he retrieved some towels and a washcloth from the cupboard under the sink along with a small washbowl. Then he turned around for the medicine cabinet beside the toilet. While taking the white antiseptic bottle, he accidently shoved a blister pack with small orange pills aside; they fell to the tiled floor. Swearing silently he picked the pack up, reading the label – vitamin B6. John knitted his brows pensively. _Since when does Sherlock need vitamin products?_ He put the pills back into the cabinet, focusing on the imminent task. Before leaving the bathroom, he also took a comb from the mirror cabinet.

Sherlock waited patiently in the kitchen, reading his emails on his mobile. His eyes darted to John for a cursory glance as he went over to the sink, pouring warm water into the washbowl. He put all the stuff onto the table, yanking deliberately at Sherlock’s chair to adjust his position for better light. Over the left shoulder of his friend, he placed one towel and then dipped the washcloth into the water to dab carefully the wound. He repeated the procedure a few times until the crust of blood faded bit by bit. “Lucky you,” John mumbled, “You don’t need stitches.”

Attentively John combed the wet hair, freeing it from the last remnants of already dried blood. At last he sprayed the antiseptic onto the still slightly bleeding wound, and Sherlock flinched at the short blaze of pain.

“I can’t let you out of my sight for even three minutes,” John murmured a feigned reproach, “And if I do, I need to patch you up later.” His hand dropped to the towel on Sherlock’s shoulder, sensing the snort of laugh beneath his finger as he shrugged. A sudden hiss made Sherlock look up. John’s fingers trailed to the place with which he had locked his eyes.

A soft brush of fingertips along the side of his neck, leading to his throat let his whole body ripple in goose bumps. John leant closer to examine the angry red and purple marks, partly obscured by the collar of his black button-down shirt. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he gasped, his breath tickling at his friend’s ear, “That guy got a tight grip on you.” One finger hooked into the collar to reveal the full angry force of the blow got his hackles up, wishing secretly to return the favor to that nasty Alpha. Several emotions swirled in his head, but the most prominent was the disappointment in the failure of protecting his friend. His fingers trailed the marks down to Sherlock’s collarbone, sensing smooth skin over the protruding ridge as his head lowered in front of Sherlock’s face to get a closer look. “Does it hurt?” John whispered, his ears ringing as he imagined the pain of the moment the broad hand gripped possessively around his friend’s throat. _What is that scent?_ A tiny voice hidden in his deepest subconsciousness grew louder, but he couldn’t figure it out. The fragrance came clearly from Sherlock, and he leant yet again closer, his eyes moving upward his throat over his chin to his lips, parting under the stare. He rolled the tongue over his bottom lip, not detecting what made his whole body so tense, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak, his tongue glued to his palate. Feeling he might suffocate he opened his mouth, sucking in the necessary oxygen, almost tasting the unknown scent.

An all-embracing shudder went through Sherlock’s body, his lips wavering at the effort to not close the gap between them. He felt drunk at the sudden closeness of John, smelling the hormonal counter reaction, intoxicating him. His mind had stilled, not producing any coherent thoughts while his body surrendered to his nature. He had always been so careful, especially with John. But today Sherlock had forgotten to reapply the Alpha scent because he got distracted at meeting his friend and talking about Mary. His eyes were blown wide with darkness; only an eclipse of pale blue remained as he closed them for the inevitable.

_John, John, John, John, John…_ His inner voice screamed as the image of the dead female Omega crossed his mind in a last cry of reason. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, recoiling as he got up, pushing the chair away with a jerk. John needed to steady his balance by gripping the table, the delirious scent all of a sudden gone. Blinking, he tried to shake off the foggy images of the last minute.

Sherlock had backed off to the kitchen counter, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets in the fear of betraying more of his scent with every inch of exposed skin. “A drink,” he cleared his voice awkwardly, “I have Scotch in the cupboard behind you.”

“Hmm?” John murmured, still too stunned at the moment they had just shared.

“You said in the restaurant you wanted something stronger than wine,” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and then turned for the bathroom, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

And then the moment was gone with the scent engulfing Sherlock, leaving a dumbfounded John behind. Sherlock closed the door of the bathroom, falling back to rest against the white painted wood. A hand scrubbed over his face, trying to make out of what had just happened. His suppressants still worked, that was beyond question. It seemed that he reacted to John’s hormonal outburst as the Omega scent filled his friend’s nose – like gravity was a body attracted another body.

Cursing under his breath over his carelessness, he pushed himself off the door to retrieve the salve which led everyone to believe he was an Alpha. He applied a large amount of the creme, hoping that John didn’t recognize what happened a few minutes ago. At least John had told Sherlock he hadn’t met any Omegas before which meant he wasn’t able to distinguish the scent. Surely John wasn’t stupid. He could put two and two together, but according to Sherlock’s deduction, the moment didn’t last long enough to conclude anything but hazy sentiments.

After throwing some cool water into his face to force the pink flush off his cheeks, he reappeared from the bathroom, finding John pouring golden liquid into two tumblers. One glance at his friend, and Sherlock knew that he needn’t worry about his cover. They retreated with the glasses to their armchairs, falling back into old patterns of talking about people they had met the last days. Laughter and giggles at some idiocy of the world filled the otherwise silent flat. Of course they avoided precarious subjects as the Alpha who just attacked them, Mary or Sherlock’s gender.

In the end it was too late for John to get home, and he accepted the offer of staying in his old bedroom. It was nearly five o’clock in the morning, and he already heard the faint noises of London awakening, mingled with another drizzle drumming at his open window. The fresh air cooled his heated mind. _What a strange night_ , he reflected, starting with that prejudiced Alpha, then patching up Sherlock and eventually getting back to the point of talking nonsense about everything. Even with a cool head John still couldn’t perceive of what made him so giddy suddenly while he treated Sherlock’s wounds. It wasn’t a bad dizziness he acknowledged to himself, lifting his arm, his hand hovering over his face. Indeed he still sensed the tickle under the skin of his fingertips which had trailed that smooth alabaster skin painted with angry purple streaks. And suddenly there was that sensation – that feeling – again, whispering in his mind that he should have killed that other Alpha for hurting his friend. Somehow, this uncontrollable anger frightened him a bit.

He took a deep intake of breath and closed his eyes as images of Sherlock subtly leaning in to his touch and parting his lips for John crossed yet again his mind. The soft breathing of his friend brushed at his lips in the unspoken want of a kiss. John had been so sure that it was a mutual thought but now he couldn’t tell anymore. As clear as the images came to his mind’s eye, as cloudy was the whole situation, and it left him in utter confusion. He rolled onto his side, considering once again the sudden shift between tension and relaxation with folded brows while they took their drinks. Sherlock could always be a manipulative bastard now and then, and certainly he had taken control of their talk, steering them away from unwanted subjects. He blinked sleepily. _What was that unfamiliar scent suddenly enveloping Sherlock?_

But he couldn’t finish his contemplation as he finally succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. Here is my blog.


	4. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch).
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They make my day :)
> 
> Next update will be January 29th.

He stood on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, his heart beating thunderously with each second in his chest as he looked down to his battleground. _John must not know_. The thoughts in his mind swirled until he felt dizzy, already swaying slightly forward as he pressed his mobile to his ear.

“Goodbye, John.”

Sherlock knew he wouldn’t die that day, but it didn’t mean that a part of him wouldn’t have died the day either way. The mobile cracked open as it hit the hard ground of the rooftop. Faintly he heard the shout of his friend, calling his name but his ears rung with the adrenaline rush of the imminent jump.

The reason to fake his death wasn’t only to dismantle Moriarty’s network as so many presumed, but also to force a separation from John. Like this he could plunge into work, hopefully forgetting his friend. _Love is a chemical defect found in the losing side_. Yet he couldn’t prevent falling for it, gravitation yanking at him. _A chemical defect, that’s what it is_. He considered grimly, referring to his gender. The medicaments Mycroft procured helped him to suppress a cycle, inhibited his body from going into heat, yet it didn’t forbade his heart starting to work properly. The stakes were too high. _John mustn’t know because he wouldn’t understand and risk his life just because of some stupid hormones._

No one had ever called his reasons into question. Indeed, why should they? He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who more than often than not proclaimed that he had no heart. Even John never dared to ask why Sherlock had decided to not take his friend with him to Easter Europe. After all he was the soldier; he had field experience and might have been of great help.

But Sherlock didn’t want John to come with him. So the worst part of _Lazarus_ – _the one restored to life_ – was letting go. Not only letting go of the mobile, but also to not stir when John’s hand curled around his wrist, taking Sherlock’s pulse. The cold sweaty fingers tingled at his still hot skin when he let go, hearing the rustling of John’s clothes as he slumped down. _Emotional pain turned into physical hurt_. His heart stopped that moment, skipping several beats; he never assumed his death would affect his friend so much. It began with a flicker in the dark, a soft spot brightening as he sensed the grief and fought back stinging tears in his dead eyes. The overflowing emotions of his friend accompanied him since then, never letting go of him again.

His visions began to blur. First at the corner of his eyes as if he looked through a tunnel. He understood he was unconscious back then in Magnussen’s office when John knelt beside him, calling for an ambulance. Yet he had sensed the same fear of that day on St. Bart’s rooftop. The emotion flooded through his whole body, making his toes curl, his fingertips numb and his head dizzy – cold pure fear. John’s fear and his fear, until it mingled into one.

John had leant over him, this time warm hands cupping his face as he called his name. Just a few inches separated them, and the blurry vision cleared as his focus fell to the tickling breath of his friend upon Sherlock’s lips. John’s lips were right in front of him as they were yesterday. _Yesterday_. Their hormones had taken control over their bodies – the principle of cause and effect. It would have been so easy just to close the small gap between their lips; all Sherlock would have needed to do was to lift his head accidently, and their whole world would have changed, crushed at that very moment of heedlessness. Yet in his dream he lifted his head, brushing his lips tentatively along John’s sensitive skin. _Do not open your eyes_. Soft lips mingled with their breath through slightly parted mouths as Sherlock closed them around John’s bottom lip, tasting faintly coffee. _Wrong!_ Timidly he probed his tongue forward, licking at the lip to steel the lingering flavor. _John hadn’t drunk coffee, it was red wine!_ A moan broke the silence, and Sherlock was confused first from where it came, until his vision blurred once again as eyelashes fluttered open, and he recognized his room.

Daylight shone through the curtains, flooding the room in an orange hue. Slowly the images of the dreams faded, and he was drawn into the cold reality of loneliness. Entangled with his duvet Sherlock stretched the sleepy numbness off his body, another groan escaping his mouth and realizing that his dream had an unwanted effect on him. His half-hard erection pressed into the mattress as a chorus of disapproval washed over him. He wouldn’t touch himself, not after yesterday. No, he wouldn’t lose control again. With another stretch he rolled onto his back, pressing the balls of his thumbs into his eye sockets until black stars flickered across white eternity. _It’ll get out of control again if I don’t keep my mind on it._

Reluctantly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, getting up for a rather cold shower. Fortunately John was still asleep. At his current state he didn’t know how he would take the Alpha scent of his friend.

Cool water ran down his slender body, relishing the sensation, aware that he still was in control over his own body despite the dream. Wet curls clung to his eyes as he brushed them away, his shoulder still hurting from the rough touch of the Alpha. He could have handled that bastard alone; his thoughts returned grimly to their unfortunate encounter. The insults hadn’t any effect on Sherlock. After all, he was an Omega, but he could see the hurt in John’s eyes, the defiant words already on his tongue. But since the Woman, John had bitten them back as if they betrayed a lie. Sherlock wasn’t just sure whether John’s feelings came from his nature, reacting on Sherlock’s pheromones, or if they spoke the unswerving truth of his heart.

His hand swiped over the condensed water of the mirror, only tiny droplets lingered, blurring his reflection. Before he went to bed he had paid little attention to his throat but as he now saw the evidence of John’s shock earlier, his eyes widened in mutual agreement. Angry streaks trailed his throat up, tinged in a dark purple. His fingers traced the path of John’s touch, resting them at his Adam’s apple. He had slight difficulties in swallowing, a sore throat when the ridge bobbed up and down.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from his mirror image, nearly disgusted at the sight of his own vulnerability. Carefully he shaved the faint stubble and then reached into the topmost shelf of his mirror cabinet. He pulled out the creme that turned him into an Alpha. When John had lived with him, he was more cautious. The creme as well as the blister packs of suppressants were kept in a safe place hidden in the drawer of his nightstand beside his bed. Once he applied his Alpha fragrance, John wasn’t so alluring anymore; at least in a sexual context. Somehow the Alpha scent dissolved with surrounding Alphas making him almost immune to the natural attraction.

Back in his bedroom, he rummaged through his closet as he heard the faint buzz of his mobile beneath his pillow. Ignoring it, he decided for black trousers and a white shirt. Before he left for the living room to read the newspapers Mrs. Hudson always provided, he shrugged into his light brown dressing gown, keeping the chill of the flat away before he turned up the heating.

Despite the noise of the shower, John hadn’t woken up, so Sherlock flicked on the kettle for hot water, preparing tea for both of them. While he waited for the water to boil he retrieved the newspaper and lounged into his armchair with a sigh. The front page made him frown at the picture of a woman in her late forties, but what worried him more was the headline. Suddenly he remembered his mobile and dug his fingers into his pocket to fish it out. It contained a message from Lestrade.

_We have a suspect for the case with the dead Omega. – Greg Lestrade._

Sherlock’s breath was caught in his throat as he compared the news with Lestrade’s text. _Wrong!_ He got up, pacing the room back and forth as he dialed the number of the detective inspector.

“What took you so long?” A tired voice greeted him.

“This is a farce,” Sherlock ignored the question, foaming with rage. “That woman has nothing to do with the death of the Omega. What was she? Her doctor?”

“Yes,” Lestrade confirmed, “Would you please listen first?” Sherlock clenched his jaws, but waited for the DI to continue. “We found two punctures at the victims crook of her arm, and the toxicological report stated that they found faint remnants of narcotics and muscle relaxants.”

“She died of Morbus,” Sherlock interfered annoyed, “She was in pain. This doctor just helped her to ease the suffering with it.” His eyes shifted to the picture of the newspaper. The woman had a stern look, weathered lines betrayed her age of nearly fifty years. Her dyed blond hair fell to her shoulders, framing her sharp feature.

“The thing is,” Lestrade tossed in to ease the detective’s temper, “We can’t prove that it was murder. But we need to follow procedures, Sherlock.”

Of course the DI had his instructions, following order from his superiors. Lestrade probably didn’t even know the extent of the arrest. Prosecution would certainly accuse her of withholding information about an Omega. Always on the hunt for any living Omega, the government wouldn’t shy nasty methods. Perhaps they assumed that this doctor – Dr. Samantha Gale – might know other Omegas as well.

“I thought,” The DI’s voice dragged Sherlock out of his contemplation, “… you might help us. Search her flat for any evidence.”

Blinking at the request, Sherlock felt the knot in his stomach convulse, “I…” he swallowed, “I can’t.” This case would put him in the line of fire, too; better to refrain from it.

“Oh,” Lestrade sounded surprised as he took a pull on his cigarette. His friend had never refused a case Scotland Yard had offered. “Okay, I understand.” He paused, waiting for Sherlock to say something but when he didn’t reply, the DI bade his goodbye.

Empty eyes looked at the display of his mobile. This case took indeed an unexpected turn. A tiny voice in a dark corner of his mind whispered, _Interesting_. But it was too dangerous. He skimmed the article once again for any clue. Dr. Gale insisted on her doctor-patient confidentiality which was her right. The law for registration of every Omega didn’t invalidate her patient’s wish. Before long they must release her. This was just a form of implicit threat to get as many information from her as possible. But according to Sherlock’s deduction, the woman from the photo wasn’t easily intimidated.

The sudden ring of the doorbell made him look up, glowering at the door and contemplating if he was in the mood for visitors. Unfortunately this was the only guest he couldn’t avoid. The occasional tap of his umbrella on the steps of the staircase disclosed the approaching steps of his older brother.

A false smile showing all teeth without reaching Sherlock’s eyes put his face in a mask, but Mycroft Holmes wasn’t to be fooled, “Hello, brother dear.”

“You haven’t answered my calls yesterday,” the older brother lifted his head a bit, looking down his nose reproachfully.

“I’ve been in the middle of a case,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and changed the topic quickly. Talking about cases with his brother was rather pointless as he always tried to correct him instead to praise him. “Why are you here? Nothing a call could handle?” He gestured for John’s armchair, but before he followed him into his own armchair, Sherlock folded the newspaper neatly, obscuring the picture of Dr. Gale.

“What I came for can’t be discussed on phone,” Mycroft’s mouth twitched shortly, “Too many who might intercept.” He opened his jacket’s button and took a seat. Sherlock’s eyes shot at once to the stairs leading up to John’s bedroom. “You have a visitor, I assume,” the older brother smiled smugly at his correct deduction.

Sherlock knew why his brother paid him a visit rather than to call. Nodding eventually, he also knew that John mustn’t overhear their subject. At the thought of John he remembered preparing tea for them and got up again to finish the job.

While pouring hot water into their mugs, he heard the door upstairs opening, followed by a curse. Sherlock knitted his brows together at the sudden grumpiness of his friend as the creaking of the wooden stairs announced his former flatmate. John ignored the living room and darted straightly for the kitchen, seeing Sherlock prepare their morning tea and missing Mycroft’s presence. “Why didn’t you wake me?” He sounded unnerved.

“Why would I?” Sherlock’s head cocked slightly at the question, his voice at the edge of harsh petulance.

“Because you notice everything,” John shrugged his shoulders, softening a bit at his own mistake. Sometimes the thought occurred to him that Sherlock's deductive skills could be compared to telepathy, reading John’s mind like an open book and observing his schedule of the day, “I’m late for work.” Of course Sherlock was no telepath.

The frown in his friend’s face dissolved in a silent _Oh_ , his hand gripping one mug to show it John, “I guess you skip tea then?”

His face turned apologetic, “Sorry. I’ll make up for it.” With that said, he turned to the living room to retrieve his abandoned jacket, stopping short at the sight of the older brother smiling at him.

“Dr. Watson,” he dipped his head in a subtle greeting nod, using the formal address to mock him friendly.

“Mycroft,” John frowned, his glance darting to Sherlock to receive an exuberant eye roll. Since Mycroft was up to send Sherlock off to some undercover mission, John got a bit tense at the presence of the older Holmes. His breath caught in the throat, ideas of sending Sherlock away again popped into his mind and let a cold shiver run down his spine. “Long time no see,” after a moment’s hesitation he found his voice again.

“Don’t be alarmed, John,” he sighed, recognizing the tension in the former soldier, “I’m here for family talk.”

A snort of laugh escaped his mouth ungracefully. He picked up his jacket from the sofa’s armrest and shrugged into it. Family talk mostly contained Sherlock’s eye rolls and Mycroft’s exaggerated sighs, leaving them at one point or another to snap at each other. Another uncertain glance to Sherlock finally reassured him that his friend was a little tense, yet comfortable.

John’s skipped tea went to the small table beside Mycroft. The older Holmes raised one eyebrow as if he considered it an insolence to offer him tea that was made for someone else. His hands slid into his pockets to check for his keys, purse and mobile as John stood in front of both geniuses, looking up at Sherlock and suddenly at loss for words. “Well, then…” he cleared his voice. What was one supposed to say in such situations where his soon to be ex-wife had disappeared, and his ex-flatmate offered him to move in with him again? “Call me when there’s a case.” That wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say, but with Mycroft around John just blinked confused, his thumb pointing for the door, “I’ll show myself out.”

Irritated at John’s oscillation, Sherlock frowned, nearly forgetting Mycroft. The older Holmes folded his legs while shifting his weight. “So, finally John Watson figured out what he wants in life,” he declared matter-of-factly.

Raising one brow, Sherlock turned around. Without doubt, Mycroft made his deduction the moment John appeared from the bedroom. The question was how far he would conclude. “He filed for divorce,” Sherlock mumbled. He didn’t want to dig into that subject with his older brother, too, because it meant he had to reveal Mary’s threat and the truth about her pregnancy.

“Took him ages,” Mycroft sipped at his tea, wrinkled his nose and put the mug back onto the small table. “But that’s not the reason I came,” Sherlock lounged into his leather armchair, glad that he needn’t explain any further. “Dr. Olson’s dead.” And all of a sudden Mycroft’s mix of an amused and annoyed look turned sharp and serious, watching his younger brother intently.

The extent of Mycroft’s sentence hit Sherlock, being thunderstruck, tension creeping up his spine, his laced fingers flexing so hard that the white of his knuckles were visible. The otherwise agitated man grew suddenly very still as every muscle in his body screamed of constriction. Dr. Robert Olson had been the Holmes family’s private doctor since almost twenty years. He even treated his father when he got infected with Morbus. And when Sherlock presented he kept his medical confidentiality and procured since then for Mycroft the much-needed suppressants. He was just sixty four years old. How could he dare to die?

“What happened?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse as he struggled to lose his tongue from the palate.

“Car accident.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted unfocused through the room, already rummaging his mind palace for a solution. This was the worst case scenario. A tight grip took hold of his chest, a hot pressure making him feel dizzy as he struggled for air. All of a sudden 221B seemed too small, and he got up pacing back and forth, afraid the walls of the flat might crush him. Without Dr. Olson, Mycroft couldn’t purchase any new suppressants.

“How many blister packs do you still have?” Mycroft’s voice resonated emptily in his head as he tried to sort his thoughts.

“One –,” he heard himself replying absent-mindedly, “… and a half.”

Mycroft left the comfortable upholstery of John’s armchair, following suit his brother and abandoning the tea. He needed Sherlock focused, and right now he seemed rather in shock, “Since I was informed about Dr. Olson’s death, I tried to find other physicians who might be willing to sell suppressants. But I failed because hormonal contraception isn’t allowed for Omegas anymore since the outbreak of Morbus. As it seemed Dr. Olson had either remainders or, which is unlikely, produced them himself.” He paused a moment to let the information sink in, and then added to safe his pride, “Please consider the risk I put myself in by trying to locate a new doctor.”

Sherlock huffed a cynical laugh at Mycroft’s pathetic attempt to apologize, answering derisively, “I assume you did all you could.”

“I did,” Mycroft countered sharply, sighing at once at his slip. His hand wandered to the inside pocket of his jacket to produce an envelope, “Perhaps you should start to consider other options.”

He handed the envelope over to Sherlock who unfolded the paper, revealing a printed photo. His eyes narrowed at the picture, showing a man of Sherlock’s age with blond cropped hair and warm brown eyes. His head snapped angrily up at his older brother, “This is your option?”

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly, “Of course you have other options as well, Sherlock.” He waited, searching his younger brother’s face if he would cross a line with his next suggestion, “With John Watson soon divorced, unbonded, he might be an option, too.”

Almost snarling at his brother’s proposal, Sherlock hardened his features, clenching his jaw as muscles flexed beneath clean-shaven skin, “That is out of the question.”

A slight tug at Mycroft’s lips made him smile with affection, “I just thought since you were recently so interested in friendships, you might feel more comfortable with a friend.”

Mycroft had expressed very clearly once that he didn’t seek friends. How would he understand? Sherlock took a deep breath, “There’s still a slight chance for me to get infected,” his voice softened a bit, defeated. “If I would die, the chances for John committing suicide afterwards would be too high.”

“But those chances would include any other Alpha you bond with likewise,” Mycroft declared mildly, looking at the familiar face on the picture.

Sherlock’s eyes dragged to his desk, away from Mycroft’s scrutinizing gaze. “No, it wouldn’t.”

It did not happen often to see Mycroft Holmes flabbergasted but Sherlock’s last remark made him pull a face. If another Alpha wouldn’t be affected when Sherlock died of Morbus it only meant that his younger brother had already bonded. And implying that John could be affected, it left only one conclusion, enlightening his mind – Sherlock had bonded with John. “Since when?”

Sherlock watched his brother’s features, searching for reproach or disgust and was surprised that he found none but concern. Since their father had died, Mycroft undertook the duties as the head of the family, which included co-educating his little brother, who had only just presented at that time. He had always assumed they were alike, two geniuses with no interest in social relationships, standing above all and everyone. How wrong his was? Mentally the older Holmes shook his head sadly.

Lips pressed tightly together at the naked truth he was forced to reveal to his brother, he took a deep breath, nostrils flaring while doing so. “It started the day I jumped from the hospital’s rooftop.” At first it had been a subtle flicker, a tingle at his wrist where John had felt his pulse. An inner agitation took a tight grip on him, every time his friend was in turmoil. There was no joy, just endless sadness and grief. With each passing day the bond grew stronger until John’s feelings sent his whole body ablaze and according to each different emotion his body reacted in another way. While Sherlock tried to dismantle Moriarty’s network, the bond was sometimes inconvenient yet helpful – an anchor which brought him down to earth, noticing that there was still someone who cared for him. Over several months the sadness faded and was replaced by a subtle flutter in the pit of his stomach. With the shift in John’s emotions, Sherlock even sensed a new image – a vague blurriness in his mind telling him where his friend was in that exact moment.

Mycroft looked around in the flat as if he searched for any clue he might have missed, indicating that John Watson already lived at 221B again. “But it’s no mutual bond,” it was a statement, not a question.

“Of course not. Why would I insist then not to involve him?” Sherlock’s snappy tone returned at the annoyance of his brother. _John must never know_.

Mycroft straightened his back, squaring his shoulders while he braced his weight onto his umbrella with a sigh, “Then we seem to agree, Sherlock. I will continue to look for a potential trustworthy physician, but in case I don’t find one until the last pill of your suppressants is consumed, you have to make a decision.” His eyes set once again on the man of the photo, his expression turning hard and professional, “You know he wouldn’t be averse to becoming a partner for you.”

Sherlock’s lips wavered subtly as he pursed them. “How fortunate for you to be born as the family’s Alpha.” Bitterness was the weapon of the unfortunates; it engulfed him, a harsh sentiment mocking his fate.

Ignoring the emotional outburst of his younger brother, Mycroft resumed, “You need a partner, Sherlock, in order to stay in London, to plunge into cases. Or you must return to Mummy’s house.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Sherlock’s heart raced in his chest. He felt as if he might drown in his own sentiments, in his raging anger. Mycroft recognized the inner turmoil and swayed at his own decision to comfort his little brother, to reach out a reassuring hand, yet he refrained from it, curling his fingers tightly around the grip of his umbrella instead. “Call me when you have made a decision.”

A derisive snort of laugh bubbled up his throat as he found John’s and Mycroft’s remark utterly similar, a reflection of their minds to expect Sherlock to decide and call them. Another heavy sigh escaped the older Holmes as he slumped his shoulders, putting on his black leather gloves. He knew it was pointless to say anything further. Sherlock had gone into pouting mode. So he bid his goodbye and left the flat.

With a bond, it was sometimes hard to focus on his own emotions. His anger mingled awkwardly with a flutter of relief from John; whatever that meant. To feel – truly _feel_ – meant to understand what those feelings provoked in his friend. Irritation clouded his mind. In the end his bad temper gained the upper hand, and Sherlock got the urge to shoot at the yellow smiley, cursing mentally. Unfortunately since John had left 221B, Sherlock had no gun anymore because his friend had taken the weapon with him.

He needed to calm down, considered shortly his violin, but then recognized that he wasn’t in the mood to play and decided for the sofa. In a luxurious sprawl he stretched his body and put steepled fingers under his chin as if in a silent prayer. He closed his eyes, mindful of his breathing. He evened the rise and fall of his ribcage as he entered his mind palace.

If there was a solution to this predicament, he might find it here, striding along long corridors with wood paneled walls. He passed memories of his childhood; Redbeard, children from school bullying him for being different, his father, his mother. He went past doors portraying chemical experiments or rooms filled with thousands of books. Yet he couldn’t find any hint of what might help him.

Finally, he reached the far end of the corridor, two doors towering in front of him. They looked exactly the same, yet they contained completely antagonistic metaphors. Flexing his fingers, he opened the left door first. The room was lit by a warm, orange painted evening sun that felt like home. There were jumpers in an open closet, upon a chest of drawers lay a gun, books and DVDs cluttered the table – this was John’s room. On the desk stood John’s laptop open, radiating light in a silent invitation, yet Sherlock hesitated. This was no solution, it was damnation. His hand gripped the door handle so hard that his curled fingers dug deep, angry crescents into his palm. The pain tore him back to his rational mind, and he stepped back, slowly closing the empty room.

His eyes dragged to the right room, knowing what lay hidden behind the heavy oak door. His shoes clicked onto the parquet floor as he entered his former room of the boarding home. Two beds to each wall of the room made place for Sherlock to walk straight to the desk below the window. The room was empty besides the furnishing and one single photo upon the desk, showing the same man on Mycroft’s photo, only twenty years younger. Mycroft’s argumentation bore solid ground. This could be one solution – an old friend from the past.

As Sherlock turned around to leave the room, he saw a neatly folded newspaper on his bed that wasn’t there before. He tilted his head in an unspoken question at the blending of visualization of his mind, unfolding the newspaper with uncertain hands. It showed the picture of Dr. Samantha Gale on the front page.

The images started to blur as he noticed that twilight invaded through his eyelids. The weather betrayed an overcast sky outside his sanctuary as he opened his eyes at the realization of another possibility – a possibility Mycroft would refuse because it was simply too dangerous for him to get involved in a scandal.

Sherlock fished for his mobile and typed a message for Lestrade.

_Send me the address of Dr. Gale. I take the case. – Sherlock Holmes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr.  
> [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	5. Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for erasing my silly mistakes.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)
> 
> Next update will be February 12th. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll also find me on Tumblr.   
> [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.

John stepped out of the district court building, inhaling fresh cold air. Small breath cloudlets swirled around his face, a last gasp of winter. According to the weather report, nippy breezes would make way for a warm promise of spring soon. How John craved for it – for the change. The winter had been too long.

He had made the first step into an unknown future, provoking the change when signing the divorce papers. Mary didn’t stand in his way. Why would she? He was neither interested in the house nor the car; too many memories that he wanted to forget. The only question that stung with remorse remained his unborn daughter. Mary applied sole custody. It wasn’t even the fact that she would receive custody but the feeling that he was robbed of an actual bond with his daughter eventually.

His now ex-wife hadn’t even shown up in court. Only her lawyer appeared, handing over the signed divorce papers. With such an uncomplicated case the judge brought about a decision within less than fifteen minutes.

A little forlorn yet happy he looked the street up and down, staggering of what he should do now. For sure, he needed to sort his stuff and pack. The judge had mandated John to leave the house within the next seven days. Once again he was faced with the question of what he expected from his life henceforth. Would he really want to return to 221B – to Sherlock – chaos surrounding his unusual life? Or would it be better to rent a small flat, sparsely furnished – back to the time of events after Afghanistan? A shudder flashed through his body at the thought.

His hands shoved into the warm inside of his jacket pocket, fingers brushing the case of his mobile. John flexed them involuntarily as he contemplated his options. In the end he couldn’t resist, and his hand curled around his phone, retrieving it from the pocket. Sometimes it was better not to think too much, he considered. And right now his stomach betrayed the sweet squeeze of joy that he wanted to celebrate with his best friend.

_Fancy a pint? I have something to celebrate. – John Watson._

The reply came at once.

_The last time ended horribly. – Sherlock Holmes._

John couldn’t help but giggle at the memory. He knew that Sherlock despised the stag night, yet it was one of the funniest days they had spent together. _How appropriate_ , he remembered, _the last time we got drunk it was the beginning of my matrimonial life, and now the call for a drink marks the end of my marriage_.

_C’mon, it’s just a pint. – John Watson._

This time almost ten minutes passed, and John was on the verge of calling a cab to head home. Sherlock indeed seemed to have problems of letting go – losing control, even if it just meant to get a bit drunk. He shook his head at the madman when suddenly his mobile buzzed.

_Where? – Sherlock Holmes._

John chose a pub near Regent Park and ordered two pints. His glass invited him to sip already while he decided to search for flats in the net, using the free Wi-Fi of the pub. Even small flats in London were extremely expensive. Soon he realized that with the house and car gone, his only asset was less than two thousand pounds on his bank account. There was scarcely room for furnishing.

Every time the front door opened John looked over the rim of his glass expectantly. After a couple of minutes Sherlock appeared at the door, clad in his usual armor of black suit and woolen coat. John blinked, noticing that his friend merely fit into the picture of such trite place like a pub. The stag night had been an exception – the first and the last time they went for a drink. Usually Sherlock decided for a restaurant, where John ate while Sherlock argued about transport. A crooked smile tucked at the corner of his lip at the memory, and he waved a hand for his friend who was scanning the room. In certain circumstances John would have called Lestrade instead of Sherlock. The DI was the sort of friend to go for a drink, laughing loudly and speaking of sport and upcoming movies. But the occasion of their celebration was his divorce from Mary – an assassin, who had shot Sherlock. Lestrade wouldn’t understand John’s feelings whereas Sherlock had been involved, and silently John wished that his best friend could find just a tiny bit empathy to comfort his Alpha friend.

With long strides, Sherlock arrived at the table in the farthest corner of the pub, hidden of curious glances. The detective arched one brow at the mental question whether John chose deliberately this place because of the occurrence with the other Alpha two days ago, or if he sought just some privacy. Shrugging out of his Belstaff, he draped it over a free chair and took a seat opposite John.

“I presume everything went smoothly.” He didn’t need to ask it as a question. John had long ago removed his wedding ring, yet there was always a certain tension gripping at his shoulders, portraying a play of strained muscles at his neck. But today he seemed relaxed, the tension gone and his weathered lines replaced by soft crinkles curling around his eyes to betray the smile as if a huge burden was taken from him.

“I guess now I have to be aware of the fact that the newspapers might want to refer to me as bachelor again,” he grinned, remembering the days before Moriarty’s meticulous plan to destroy Sherlock. Yet he was also aware that his friend had been very careful with the press since the incident with Magnussen. Sherlock owed entirely Mycroft’s influence in this case. His older brother somehow handled the affair to let the shooting look like suicide.

A smile curled around Sherlock’s lips as he lifted his glass in an unspoken toast. After his first swallow full of beer Sherlock grimaced subtly, not grasping why someone could actually like that sort of drink. For him it was a too rich flavor, leaving a bitter aftertaste mingled with an oversensitive prickle on his tongue. But the detective made an exception for John in the hope of not blowing his cover of his dislike. He sensed John’s emotional confusion. On the one hand he was happy that a certain part of his life had ended today – that _he_ was able to put an end to it – on the other hand he was torn between his new uncertain life and the guilt of abandoning his daughter. Well, Sherlock felt the emotions, but he added the deductions himself. An inner voice warned the detective not to let John get too drunk. Such situations tended to get nasty in the end as he remembered vomiting on the floor of that posh-looking flat.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock studied his friend with intense eyes, the most important question already on the tip of his tongue as he was surprised that John took up the subject, “I still don’t know what the next step is.” He took another gulp, almost draining his beer in one go. “As long as I keep running I’m convinced to do the right thing, but when I stop, considering what to do next, I fail to come to a conclusion.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Maybe you think too much.” It was an awful explanation, and he replaced sourly in his mind _think_ with _feel_.

“And that’s coming from you,” John chuckled at Sherlock’s failure of self-reflection. As good as the detective could read other people like books, he was just as bad at recognizing his own behavior.

Blinking at the innuendo, he saw John’s point and realized that his friend might be right. It was actually the other way around – he felt too much and lacked logical thoughts. “Then you should consider your options from a rational point of view.”

John looked up confused, frowning at his friend. Undoubtedly this was the best suggestion Sherlock had ever made. As much as he was torn between his feelings for Sherlock and Mary with the unborn child, he had failed to consider the hard facts of reality. After checking the net for flats he knew he could barely afford even a small flat, not to mention the upcoming child maintenance. His job at the surgery would scarcely cover his expenses. He would need a flat share again.

Absent-mindedly Sherlock rolled the glass between his hands, contemplating of what he should say, of what John wanted him to say. All those feelings irritated him so much. That was the reason he had always refrained from them. Rationality and sentiment didn’t fit. If they interacted, one of them fell by the wayside, which was why John couldn’t make a decision so far.

Sherlock had made his mind up, although his own life was on the verge of a drastic change. His hand slid into his coat jacket to retrieve a sheet of paper. John eyed him curiously, but Sherlock ignored the look first. Unfolding the sheet, he riveted on several lines of random letters. Mycroft had suggested his options for his little brother’s future, yet Sherlock had also found another way: like this he might stay in 221B with no upcoming constraints. His eyes lifted to John who frowned at the paper. Sherlock’s offer was still open; he would like John to move in again. And even if his plan failed, the detective would be willing to leave 221B for John because then he wouldn’t presumably have no place there anymore.

“What’s this?” John couldn’t withhold his curiosity anymore, ripping his friend out of his contemplations.

Tentative fingers brushed along the letters, “This is a code. The letters seemed at first in disarray but there’s a pattern. I worked on it for the last five days.”

John leant closer, asking himself what that code might hide. A new case perhaps? “What does is say?”

A small smile played with the detective’s lips at the eagerness of his friend. For a while Sherlock had thought about it of letting John in on the case. “Don’t you read the newspapers?” He feigned a reproach very well aware of the recent events in John’s life. “That dead female Omega was treated by a doctor, and they accuse her of withholding information. They use her as a warning for others who might treat or hide Omegas.”

John folded his brows pensively, “Who’s using her as a warning?”

“The government, obviously,” Sherlock replied a bit annoyed. “They want to detect every living Omega for their scientists to find a cure, not caring about the fact that those Omegas could die in their labs like all those before them.”

“And they think that there are more Omegas hidden?”

Sherlock nodded, shoving the paper towards his friend for a closer inspection. “I have _proof_ that more of them exist.” John looked at the disarray of letters, not understanding the pattern. “Lestrade asked me five days ago to check the flat of that Dr. Gale, and I found this.”

John’s eyes snapped up, knowing what his friend had done, “Please don’t tell me you’ve taken this from the flat without informing Greg?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder, not feeling guilty at all, “If I would hand that paper over they would find those hidden Omegas.” Pulling the sheet back, he pointed with his index finger onto the first line of letters, “Those are names, John. And with those names they can retrace the Omegas and drag them for experiments into their laboratories.”

John watched Sherlock lean back in his chair, lips pressed to a thin line, and he saw the disgust in his eyes given the injustice of their government. “You’re working against Greg then?” He nearly whispered at the truth of his words.

“No,” Sherlock answered in a determined tone, “He just asked me to scan the doctor’s flat for evidence that she might have killed the female Omega.”

“Did you find any clue?”

Sherlock’s smile slowly returned, “No.” He retrieved the document, folding it again to put it back into the safety of his coat pocket. Without doubt, John wouldn’t ask why Sherlock had shown him the evidence while the case was seemingly closed, but for Sherlock it was important to observe John’s reaction. He didn’t need proof of John’s loyalty in regard to their friendship, yet he wanted to educate his friend, letting him know about other Omegas and their miserable situations life dictated them – a form of solace that John’s situation could be worse. An equal disgust rose within John, mirroring Sherlock’s own repulsion, and then interfered a warmer sentiment with the negative emotion: empathy which enveloped Sherlock’s mind, making him almost dizzy while John’s feelings overlapped with his own.

After two hours and three other beers along with two shots of vodka John had reached his alcohol level of almost losing his dignity; on the cusp of physically able to walk but talking too much. Sherlock had kept to his word and just drank one pint. Shaking off the numbness of their legs, they staggered into the cool air where twilight had already made place for a darker, grayer sky.

They walked the street along in direction of Baker Street. John had decided to take the tube, but if they should meet a cab on their way he would flag it. Shoulders brushing they ambled through narrow alleys as Sherlock spoke up, “Have you seen the bartender?”

John looked at his friend, eyes narrowing in the hope of understanding the sudden question. “No,” he murmured, trying to remember how the man had looked like, but his memories were blurred by too much alcohol.

“The man’s recently divorced, too. His body structure was –“ Sherlock hesitated, struggling for the right word, “Let’s agree on heavy, his fingers thick and the skin at his ring finger still dented.” John’s eyebrow raised to portray a quizzical look. Sherlock huffed and halted, “Really, John? You would do well to start observing than just to see.” The usual reproach had lost its sharpness as Sherlock’s lips curled into a gentle smile. “Even though he was recently divorced he seemed glad about his new life – having a new haircut, new clothes and so on. He owns the pub and works with enthusiasm instead of hiding himself away. Plus: he’s been flirting with every woman in the pub.”

Dumbfounded John gaped at his friend with his mouth open. Was that Sherlock’s way of encouraging him? He blinked confused, his lips pressed together just to betray a subtle twitch that he couldn’t hold back for long as a snort with laughter bubbled up his throat.

“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock looked taken aback, not sure whether John was laughing about his deductions or at him.

“No,” a reassuring hand squeezed gently Sherlock’s shoulder as his laughter subsided, “You just pointed out in your very own way that I’m better without Mary, so I shouldn’t be worried about what’s coming next, right?”

Sherlock nodded slowly while John’s hand dropped to his side, flexing before he turned to walk on. After a few steps he realized that Sherlock didn’t follow.

“John,” he began, “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for quite a while but I didn’t know how to put it.” He stood in the middle of the pavement, a woman looking on her mobile almost bumping into him.

John came to a halt, turning around as another gush of curiosity flickered over his face. The pit of Sherlock’s stomach clenched into a tight knot. He didn’t dare to lock his eyes with his friend, afraid he might not be able to tell the truth when those honest eyes bored into his soul. His otherwise rich baritone was barely a shadow of itself, “When Mary visited me last week I deduced something I already assumed on the tarmac, but wasn’t sure back then.”

John’s alcohol softened features hardened at the mention of his ex-wife. Narrowing his eyes at his friend, he sensed the dither with skepticism. Sherlock’s mind was always as keen as a razor and could cut deeply if he wanted to, but every time doubt crossed the detective’s face, fear crept up John’s spine. Doubt contradicted with the genius’ rationality. And the last time John had observed that trait, Sherlock had killed Magnussen. “What was it?” he asked afraid of the truth.

Sherlock, aware of the edge in his friend’s voice, hesitated nervously to catch up the few steps between him and John. “When she sat on the sofa, and we were talking, there was a shift every now and then…” He paused, struggling for words how to explain John the truth he deserved, “Back on the tarmac I smelled that shift too. But in the flat it had been more prominent…”

“Sherlock?” The name included a heavy warning not to overstretch their friendship.

“She is not pregnant, John.”

John looked at Sherlock aghast for a moment, opening his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but then snapped it closed again. A mirthless huff escaped his throat eventually, and Sherlock sensed the disbelief of his friend. “I swear, Sherlock, if this is one of your bad jokes…” he broke at the unspoken thought, his voice quiet and calm at the verge of dangerous, conveying another warning.

“It isn’t,” Sherlock ended John’s implicit threat. “She’s very good. Perhaps she’s done this before. For a job, I mean.” Sherlock closed the gap between them with deliberate steps, careful not to intrude into John’s personal space. “Her body and movement betrayed subtle hints,” he hesitated, uncertain to elaborate his last clue. “And then there was always that shift in her scent hidden beneath a fragrance of Beta scent.”

John began to shake his head as if wanted to deny the truth. _This has to be another quip, to make me move into Baker Street again_.

“She’s an Alpha, John. She cannot be pregnant.”

Abruptly, two strong fists bunched on his Belstaff’s thick collar, yanking him backwards and pushing him against a stone wall. Sherlock winced at the sudden impact of his already sore shoulder crushing against the hardness of a tenement.

“How dare you,” John shoved firmly against his friend’s chest, pressing at the sternum while Sherlock coughed for oxygen. “How dare you…” Stubborn tears stung to John’s eyes, repeating the words through choking sobs as he acknowledged the truth of it. His anger swelled at the truth that his best friend had concealed it from him for a while.

Sherlock didn’t fight back, too overwhelmed with the gush of emotions – fear, anger, doubt, love, hatred. How could someone _feel_ so much? His eyes were closed while the waves crushed down on him as if he accepted this as his punishment for not telling the truth at once.

“Dammit,” while John’s voice had been the rolling thunder during the rage of a storm a minute ago, it became now barely a whisper. Defeated John slumped his shoulders, and Sherlock noticed his friend’s forehead bump into his chest with a soft rustling of their clothes in surrender.

Opening his eyes again to look down at John’s honey colored crown combed with graying strands of hair, a sudden flood of empathy washed over Sherlock as he imagined John’s loss – the loss of his unborn child. This last lie had broken him. He could live with Mary’s lie about her life but including him by betraying John with a child, who never would be, crossed the line. A single emotion bubbled up the invisible tunnel of his bond; where there had been only bitterness before, now it was replaced by hatred. Sherlock knew that this sentiment wasn’t targeted at him for not telling the truth, but at Mary. His friend’s hands curled even firmer into Sherlock’s coat collar, not to shove him harder against the wall but to hold him close, giving the detective no space to retreat. Above all, John needed his friend right now, and he wouldn’t allow him to back off while his body cried for warmth.

After a moment of watching his broken friend, Sherlock raised his arm still uncertain whether his action would hurt John further or if he would hurt himself. Yet he didn’t stop as his hand softly cupped John’s crown, first patting clumsily and then resting his weight into the touch. His bond told him that it was a welcome caress, and a shiver run down his spine. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s baritone voice vibrated through his chest, and John sensed the oscillation on his head, his ears carrying on the echo of those warm words, unclenching a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. Yet he didn’t dare to look up into those pale blue eyes that knew everything in a split-second. Today he lost a promise of an empty lie, but deep in his subconscious mind he was aware that he didn’t grieve for his unborn daughter; even if there would have been a child. Mary had done everything that he couldn’t bond with the child which made the loss easier for him. And hatred for his ex-wife was a much stronger sentiment now, so it gained the upper hand. Faintly he heard Sherlock’s whisper, apologizing again while his fingers played absent-mindedly with some strands of his hair. The comforting gesture let a warm tingle dug into John’s inner core because it happened so rarely that Sherlock opened up to show compassion. Those were the moments John cherished most. Yet he couldn’t tell whether his friend apologized because he withheld the truth or if he felt sorry for John.

Slowly John’s hands uncurled, pressing his palms against Sherlock’s chest and shoving himself backwards as if this was the most exhausting thing to do. The detective’s fragrance lingered still in his nose, a mix of his expensive shower gel and his eau de toilette; fresh and intense mingled with his natural Alpha scent. It reminded John of that other fragrance five days ago that he still couldn’t place yet.

Dizzy with too many emotions he leant his back at the wall beside Sherlock, brushing their shoulders. At the moment it seemed unbearable to lose any contact. To avoid looking into his friend’s eyes, John stared at the sky, here and there the clouds let him peek through the overcast darkness to find a star. “What was that scent when I patched you up five days ago?” He didn’t mean to ask it aloud, yet it had slipped his lips.

Sherlock swallowed at the bold question of his friend. He hadn’t assumed that John actually would bring up that topic. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his mouth suddenly too dry, as Sherlock searched for an explanation. Usually John recognized that sort of things, but he didn’t question them. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s stare into the eternity of the universe. _We’re so small and insignificant within that endless darkness, yet sometimes our problems want to consume us_.

“I’ve been experimenting with natural fragrances of all genders,” Sherlock began as a new lie formed in his mind to dodge the question. “Probably you noticed the faint remnant of an Omega scent.”

John’s eyes widened, and his head snapped to Sherlock. “Omega scent?” he asked with an incredulous pitch in his voice.

Shrugging his shoulders as indifferent as possible, Sherlock offered, “Sorry?” An apology implied that he had provoked an unwanted reaction from John which was probably true. Would have John reacted like a mindless Alpha on instinct even if he hadn’t perceived Sherlock’s Omega scent?

John formed a silent _Oh_ as he understood. Goose bumps rippled his body at the memory. “I’ve never smelled anything like that. It was –“ He searched for words to explain his feelings other than heavily aroused. “It was unexpected.” With a nod he emphasized his meaning and pursed his lips sheepishly.

Yet a slight pang of disappointment let John’s stomach drop. No disappointment about Sherlock revealing the truth that it had been Omega scent, but disappointment that the detective seemed to presume that John’s attraction towards him resulted from this scent. John shook his head imperceptibly, a hint of his eagerness to deny that it just had been the hormones.

“It was an experiment to heighten my olfactory sense,” Sherlock clarified to save John’s dignity. “That’s the reason I detected the difference in Mary’s shifting scent.” Now and again the detective was indeed glad that his bond worked just one-way. If John would know his lies it could get tremendously inconvenient. No lies, no secrets – two souls thinking alike.

John locked his blue eyes showing the depth of a dark ocean with Sherlock’s ice blue. The street lamps highlighting small reflections in tiny white dots to make them sparkle like diamonds. But then the moment of shared understanding was gone again, and John cast his look down, “I’m a pathetic idiot!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” protested John, his voice betraying a hint of amusement, “And of course you already know that I can’t resist moving back into 221B, right?”

Sherlock flashed a smile which turned into a cheeky grin as he tilted his head for a better view at John. “Of course.” He saw relief that finally a decision was made, and as much John refused to move back he wasn’t able to resist gravity once again. A tiny bit of remorse nagged at Sherlock for distorting the whole truth, but at the moment he very selfishly was glad to have John back.

“Then let’s go,” John proposed eagerly, still half-drunk from the alcohol and overload of emotions. He didn’t want to wait any further. When he could put an end to it, he would end it now without stopping to race, without letting his mind to rethink his options and getting assailed by doubts.

They looked at each other for a moment, an unspoken question hovering over their heads, but in the end neither of them backed out, and so they peeled themselves off the wall. Sherlock hailed a cab at the main street and told the driver the address.

“It won’t last long,” John promised during their drive, “I don’t have much left to take with me.” He grimaced, already planning mentally which clothes and other belongings he would pack.

After they arrived at John’s home, he fished the keys out of his jacket while Sherlock stood in front of the house, noticing that he never had visited his friend here. The whole street seemed so mediocre – so normal. Suddenly realization hit him as he became aware of ripping John out of this safe life of normality. Was that really the best decision? But John’s feeling conveyed pure determination and dismissed the self-doubt of his friend at once.

“Just give me ten minutes, okay?” John asked and dashed upstairs for the bedroom to stuff his suitcase with his clothes.

Sherlock’s eyes followed John as he stepped closer into the flat. A thought occurred in his mind which he hadn’t paid much attention before. Maybe he could find any clue regarding A.G.R.A in this flat? He stopped in the middle of the living room, turning around and taking every detail in. The flat betrayed mostly Mary’s taste of furnishing and even most of the books and DVDs were hers. She had a very patronizing personality; no wonder, she was an Alpha in the end. Lifting his chin, Sherlock sniffed cautiously. The smell of the flat mingled mainly with John’s masculine Alpha nature and Mary’s ever shifting scent.

He lounged onto the sofa gracefully, his look roaming over the titles of the books – mostly romances. A derisive snort made his nostrils flare. Even in such subtle things like books lay the lie hidden; Mary was all but a romantic person. How long did she want to play this lie? At some point of her life she must have become extremely bored with her cover of normality. At least he would have been.

A sudden thump made him look up at the ceiling. Slightly worried he got up and headed upstairs. John had been drunk, and he had quite a disturbing day, so it was just natural to look if he was alright. On his way he scanned the flat for any clues, but gave up in the end. Mary had psychopathic tendencies, if not being a proper psychopath. Surely she was very neat in hiding any hints about her true self.

He found John in the last room of the corridor, the bedroom. His friend struggled with the suitcase to close it. Obviously John had tossed his clothes into the case in a hurry without folding them.

“You know, it would have been easier to zip it when you would have packed more…”

“Shut up,” John cut in the smug statement of his friend while he pressed his whole weight onto the case, “And help me.”

Stepping closer, Sherlock perceived the stronger scent of both Alphas. The bedroom was the most used room in a flat and therefore smelled strongest. Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly, trying to blank Mary out and just filtered John’s scent. It’s not that he didn’t know his friend’s fragrance but in this room it left a delirious image of increasing testosterone which made him light-headed. It was the reason he always had avoided John’s bedroom upstairs back in Baker Street.

With shaky fingers, Sherlock pulled the zipper closed and then retreated a few steps, clearing his voice awkwardly. “That’s it?”

John looked down at the suitcase. He hadn’t packed much, but it was sufficient. Downstairs he would put some of his books and DVDs into his rucksack. “That’s it,” he echoed.

Glad about John’s quick way to pack, Sherlock retreated further, leaving the bedroom to take a deep intake of breath without any disturbing pheromones. But the second the air hit his olfactory nerves he tensed, putting a firm hand on John’s chest to stop him going downstairs. His friend looked bewildered first at the gesture before he realized what Sherlock meant. Another musky Alpha scent filled his nose from downstairs, getting his hackles up. This time there was no shift in the scent anymore, just the pure Alpha nature which had been hidden for so long.

“Mary.”


	6. Irrationality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)
> 
> Next update will be February 26th. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.

There was always a natural shift in an Alpha’s scent reacting to the actual situation which betrayed their emotional state – fear, fury, arousal, excitement, nervousness. The produced scent’s only purpose was to interact with an Omega, like yin and yang to complement each other in a mutual dance.

When Mary’s scent reached Sherlock’s olfactory nerves, he backed away instinctively, nostrils flaring. Like this, he shoved himself next to John who had been struggling with the heavy suitcase behind his friend. Sherlock couldn’t help it with Mary’s aggressive Alpha fragrance now, not obscured anymore by a thick Beta scent.

While Sherlock retreated with another step, John let go of his suitcase, stepping forward in a strangely protective manner. Confused, he looked into Sherlock’s face, trying to read his expression; his eyes wide and his mouth pressed to a thin line, biting the insides of his cheeks. If it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, John would have assumed that his friend was nervous. But clearly that couldn’t be the case. Perhaps he just yielded to John, getting the chance to talk to his ex-wife with no interference from Sherlock.

John gripped the handle of the suitcase determined, dragging it downstairs. Mary stood in the middle of their living room as John became visible for her, but she must have smelled them the moment she stepped in the house. Close behind followed Sherlock. She raised a mocking eyebrow, yet her sharp features betrayed her tense mood.

“As I can see,” John began casually with his voice dripping of sarcasm, “You lost some weight.”

Mary’s right hand flipped to her belly, a practice she had accomplished through the last nine months and had become an involuntary habit. Where there had been a huge bulge a few days ago, her favorite red coat flattered her petite curves again. Her eyes snapped to Sherlock in an asking glare. John’s remark had revealed no knowledge about the baby, but according to Sherlock’s expression her ex-husband knew the truth. Just for a second her stomach dropped, leaving a queasy feeling, but as her hand left her belly to grip her purse she composed herself again.

“So he told you?” Defiantly Mary lifted her chin, glacial blue eyes locked with Sherlock.

Ignoring the question, John left the suitcase at the base of the staircase and walked to the shelves, retrieving several books and DVDs. “Of course he did,” he mumbled eventually, kneeling down beside the desk to take the one folder with the label _John_ , containing his bank account information and insurance documents.

It took all his strength to not explode in front of Mary, although inside he was fuming with rage and irrevocable hurt. Sherlock sensed the inner turmoil of his friend which threatened to tear him apart. Mingled with his own fear of being exposed he grabbed the suitcase and went past Mary without a word, heading for the front door. He wanted to get out of the false dichotomy as soon as possible. All the while she fixed her gaze on Sherlock, ignoring her ex-husband as if he was an irrelevant fact.

“And did he tell you _his_ lie, too?”

Another shift in Mary’s scent made Sherlock’s hair stand on end. Since their last meeting he was very well aware of the fact that his secret might not only be spilled to his friend but also to the whole world. Yet Mary seemingly hadn’t put any effort in revealing Sherlock’s gender to the public. So she wanted to use it to drive a wedge between both friends. _Jealousy – love is a much more vicious motivator_.

“I don’t care,” John said as he followed Sherlock with his packed rucksack, yet the detective knew exactly that his friend was lying. Not only did he sense the pang of disappointment, but also observed the cursory glimpse to Sherlock which spoke of ambivalence. John just didn’t want to give in to his ex-wife, letting her gain the upper hand whereas he had all the right to be furious with her. It was just another game of distracting him from her lies, and he wouldn’t satisfy her wounded vanity.

A flicker of doubt crossed Mary’s eyes, and Sherlock read it as she might presume that John already knew the truth. Perhaps he would get out of this far better than expected. A short glimmer of hope mingled with Sherlock’s fear of exposure that Mary wouldn’t pry into his secret.

“You are accusing me of lying to you about _my_ life, yet you forgive your friend lying about _his_ life?” Her voice sounded hurt, but the shift in her scent betrayed the falseness beyond her words. “He’s an Omega, you know.”

That said made John stop at the threshold, eyes snapping to Sherlock. Those pale blue almond-shaped eyes would pierce straight to the inner core of his opponents, but in the face of the truth Sherlock always tried to back out; be it to ridicule the rising from the dead by disguising himself as a waiter or to ask John for forgiveness while a bomb was ticking to laugh cruelly in the end. But right now Sherlock couldn’t stand to face the dark blue ocean of John’s questioning eyes, letting his long eyelashes flutter close to take a shaky intake of breath. All he had tried to maintain so desperately, all he had tried to _not_ involve John was destroyed in that very moment as the façade crumbled down on them. And it hurt – John’s feelings hurt.

John, still facing Sherlock, stood stone silent for a few seconds, catching his breath. He had never been a good liar, never been well in hiding his emotions, and now he was confronted with two self-proclaimed psychopaths in one room. His eyes lowered to the ground while he turned around for Mary, pursing his lips in disapproval, “Like I said, I don’t care.” But his voice betrayed his lie, deep and menacing, the hidden storm of rage slowly looming up to the surface.

At the sight of her ex-husbands played insignificance Mary faltered, her own anger of being the deserted wife painting her face with annoyance. “He got you involved, and in the worst case it might get you into prison, like that doctor from the newspapers.” Her eyes resumed the vicious glare at Sherlock full of hurt pride, “He doesn’t care for you. If he did, he would have let you go.”

That was the last straw that broke the camel’s back for John. “Because he’s an Omega?” After all what Sherlock had told him about the implicit suppression of the rare gender, he hated the argument of his ex-wife and shook his head irritated, “I don’t care.” He took two steps toward Mary, noticing the subtle shift in her balance, realizing that she felt threatened and stopped; her scent was sharp and menacing that moment, exposing what she had hid so long – an Alpha assassin. “Maybe he did lie – lying by omission, but in the end he wasn’t the one who _betrayed_ me. There’s a big difference between a lie and betrayal. A lie can be forgiven, Mary, but not betrayal.” Stubborn tears made his vision watery, and he blinked them furiously away, “I really would have liked it, you know, being a father.” Then his voice broke, and he shook his head again before he turned to go.

His hand slammed the door handle enraged while he strode into the cool evening air, ignoring Sherlock. His friend would follow anyway; he neither needed to call for him nor did he need to look back shooting him a glance that implied to come. Usually it was the other way around. With determined steps John marched the street along, heading for the tube station to hail a cab there. Behind him he heard the soft steps of Sherlock’s shoes on the pavement accompanied by the steady noise of the rollers of the suitcase being dragged behind.

According to Sherlock’s defeated body language, John presumed that Mary for once actually told the truth. For a split-second the revelation of Sherlock being an Omega appeared so ridiculous that he first denied believing it. But Sherlock’s silence confirmed Mary’s statement. _Experiment, eh?_ He thought sourly, facing another lie to camouflage the truth of his scent.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice revealed again a hint of uncertainty.

“No,” abruptly, John turned around, Sherlock almost bumping into him. “Don’t!” John’s finger wagged as a warning in front of the detective’s face, his eyes shifting between hurt, anger and an edge of distrust how to handle that news. Then he resumed his way, crossing the street for a cab. As far as Sherlock had explained to him the public wasn’t the best place to argue about the inevitable.

Their drive to 221B stretched into an endless flicker of black and white, street lamps illuminating the darkness inside the taxi. With an imminent row the drive proceeded into eternity, and Sherlock found himself fidgeting in his seat every now and then. He felt uncomfortable with the bond infusing John’s turmoil: with his anger subsiding, doubt came to the fore bit by bit. Sherlock knew that ambiguity – it referred to his gender. John was suddenly confronted with the fact whether his attraction arose from his heart or from his hormones imposed by his very own nature. It was a question the detective had often asked himself, too. Again he shouted mentally at his own distress: _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_.

Sherlock bit his lower lip at his self-imposed epiphany. Mycroft’s education had no intention to be malicious, he just taught his little brother his own Alpha virtues, forgetting that Sherlock was an Omega; his life was dictated by sentiment due to the hormones, and he hated it. He wanted to be strong-minded like his older brother, and so he learnt to suppress his nature. His gender was a private matter, and when it arose during his first heat, he hated it to discuss with Mycroft, feeling shamed. And now his best friend would face him with the exact same issue. His hands curled tightly into fists, leaving red crescents in his palms. Yet it wasn’t the fact of telling John such delicate things about his life that frightened him, but the fact that John might not want to move in eventually, loathe him, so Sherlock would be alone again.

When the cab pulled over in front of 221B, John tossed several notes towards the driver. Sherlock had taken the lead again and stepped out of the car, heading for the front door without waiting for his friend, who he left to struggle with the suitcase and rucksack. He wanted to be the first one in the flat, bracing himself to bare his secrets while holding his ground in his home’s familiar surroundings.

Shrugging out of his coat, he draped the black wool over the sofa’s armrest with exaggerated care, listening to the approaching footsteps of his friend as he took the seventeen steps. The luggage left downstairs, John had caught up, appearing at the door as Sherlock unwrapped his blue cashmere scarf. The bruises of the encounter with the other Alpha were still prominent, only the colors had changed from angry purple and crimson to a rather shady pink. It provoked another rippling of John’s skin, but now he knew why his body responded that sensitive – it was an Alpha’s possessive reaction in the sheer want of protecting an Omega. And a small but persuasive voice in his head added _his Omega_.

Sherlock struggled for composure, chewing his bottom lip and hiding his flexing hands in his trouser pockets. He shifted his weight now and again from one leg to the other as if in a waltz to take off the tension of both of them. Yet John remained at the door, not bothering with shrugging out of his jacket, but watching his friend with acute eyes.

“Maybe it’s not the best idea to move in anymore, is it?” Sherlock didn’t bear the silence anymore and approached the topic by assuming John’s tense behavior was evoked by a sort of disgust. Surely, he thought, John wouldn’t want to share a flat with an Omega.

But Sherlock was surprised by John’s conflicting anger. “Stop making decisions for me!” John snapped, and Sherlock stilled, ending his nervous dance. His friend’s glare softened the same moment again, weighing Sherlock’s plight. The detective realized that John sought no row; he simply wanted to understand, to grasp the desperation of yet another lie by his friend. Finally, he replied Sherlock’s question in a gentler tone, “Moving in depends on your answers.”

Sherlock freed his bottom lip from torture, his shoulders slumping not in defeat, but in relief. “All right.”

“I just want –“ John began, struggling for words, “I just don’t want you to make decisions for me when I’m involved. I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions.” This provoked a vague smile from Sherlock’s lips because John was the only person he allowed to talk to him like that. “Or,” he hesitated as he shrugged out of his jacket at last, “Have you changed your mind? Don’t you want me to move in again while I know that you are…”

John trailed off, and Sherlock took up, shaking his head vehemently, “No, I still want you to move in.”

Nodding affirmatively, John said, “Good.” He closed the door, putting his jacket on the hook. “Then you better answer my questions.” His chin pointed to their armchairs for them to sit down.

With deliberate steps they walked simultaneously to their chairs, flopping into their places of former domesticity. Sherlock crossed his legs in a defensive manner, his fingers digging into the green leather of the armrest. By all means John shouldn’t be miffed about it. The subject he approached was indeed very private. “So… an experiment it was?” John looked up from under his eyelashes, one brow quirking in the hope of relieving the dense air between them. Yet he couldn’t help it, but his voice betrayed an edge of reproach.

Sherlock blinked at the innuendo, remembering what John was hinting at. “No, it was an accident.”

Now John felt like an imbecile, pursing his lips at the memory how he hadn’t been able to stop himself, losing any self-control. For a second he had assumed it wasn’t an accident that Sherlock fully intended to inflame John’s reaction. The thought made his heart leap and his stomach aflutter, but Sherlock’s remark brought John back down to earth again. He shook his head at his own idiocy. “An accident…” he muttered to himself, feeling exposed. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, we were living almost two years together, but despite that _accident_ I never recognized anything.” A wry smile curled around his lips at the awkward situation, leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees, “How do you do this? How do you obscure your gender?”

Sherlock flinched at the reference, but lifted his eyes to eventually lock them with John’s. Anger and embarrassment switched within those pale blues, not at John, but at the world for justifying himself. But when his eyes collided with John’s, he found no sensation mongering in his friend’s asking, just curiosity and concern. “I take contraceptives which suppress my hormonal level to a very low stage. It prevents me to go into heat, blocking ovulation and therefore obscures my scent.” He swallowed the lump from his throat, a small clicking noise interrupting his explanation. “Due to the suppressants the scent’s reduced to a low level. Only when an Alpha comes near enough he might smell it.” His voice delivered a clinical explanation, monotone and reserved, while his piercing eyes sought still John’s, searching for any hint of disgust, but instead he found excitement. “As I said it was an accident.” He needed to make that fact clear, afraid John might misinterpret his failure. He needed to prove it to himself that it wasn’t his intention to reveal his scent to John that day. But somehow he failed yet again at his own persuasion. Had he really been that occupied that day to forget the creme, or did his subconscious mind lead him to believe his own lie? After a few days the memory of that particular moment began to blur, and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

John furrowed his brows as he failed to understand the full meaning, “But I patched you up before, and I never recognized anything.”

“I manufacture my own Alpha fragrance mixing it with a perfume-free creme,” Sherlock shrugged. “Before the outbreak of Morbus people could buy Alpha scents in perfumeries regularly. It’s considered to be an aphrodisiac,” a cheeky grin curled around the thin line of his pinched lips, “As well as Omega scents. Betas seemed sometimes to be very desperate.” He wrinkled his nose at the imagination. “But after the outburst the government undertook a lot of so called safety regulations which also prohibited the producing and selling of Alpha scents. They were afraid Omegas would use it in their favor. People can still buy it on the black market, but that would be too dangerous,” now his smile turned his eyes into sparkling diamonds full of pride, awaiting the usual praise of his best friend, “As a chemist, I can make it myself.”

But instead of praise John’s jaw fell slack open at the meticulous deception, “And the registration?”

“Mycroft helped me.” John needed no further explanation. With the reminder of the fact that the older Holmes brother literally was the British government, John had no further questions. But he also realized if Sherlock’s secret was spilled, Mycroft would also fall. In the end, Mary did have the upper hand in that game. The question was, would she really go so far as to reveal Sherlock’s gender to the public?

“And how do you get all the suppressants?” John was a physician; he knew that hormonal contraceptives for Omegas weren’t produced anymore. “Surely you can’t produce them yourself, too?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied clipped, especially that part of the topic was getting on his nerves, “My makeshift kitchen laboratory is too small for manufacturing it. Mycroft procures them for me.”

Exhaling a sigh, John let himself fall backwards, his frame perfectly encircled by the red armchair, “Jesus, that’s quite a framework to maintain your…” he rolled his hand in the air, searching for the right word as he had realized that Sherlock abhorred the word _gender_ , “… your secret.”

“I got used to it,” Sherlock shrugged, the tension slowly fading from his body. “Like this I can continue my work, otherwise I…”

“Oh my God,” John didn’t let Sherlock finish the sentence, jerking suddenly upright, “The work – the case with the female Omega. That’s why you got so tense.” He scrubbed a desperate hand over his face, “Jesus, Sherlock, you could have gotten infected.”

“The risk is always there,” Sherlock spoke in a calm voice to reassure John; he needed no overprotective Alpha telling him how dangerous his work was. “Morbus is still out there,” his hand waved in the air, gesturing for the window to imply the harsh reality outside of 221B. “The latest victims of the disease proved it. Alphas and Betas can still be passive disease carriers.”

John’s eyes widened at the truth of his friend’s words. Goose bumps rippled over his body at the thought that Sherlock might get infected and die eventually with John incapable of doing anything. Nausea manifested in the pit of his stomach at his helplessness, and his breathing grew shallow. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s typical Alpha reaction. The mere thought of Sherlock being an Omega revolutionized John’s thinking. It was an experience John never learnt, and now it was all crushing down on him – a slight glimpse of what Sherlock’s life must have been until now. “Why haven’t you told me?” After a deep breath John needed to know; at least he was his best friend.

“ _That’s_ exactly the reason,” Sherlock gestured in annoyance with his hands, pointing to John’s nearly hyperventilating behavior, “You behave irrationally.” At this John drew another deep breath, closing his eyes to compose himself again, his expression stern, but his eyebrows arched in an unspoken question that he didn’t accept Sherlock’s remark as an answer. Sherlock sighed, “It was beyond question to tell you when we first met. I didn’t know you despite the hard facts of my deductions, and I didn’t know how far I could trust you. Over time it became almost impossible to tell you. I mean, how would it have looked like when I would have come up one day like ‘oh, by the way, I’m an Omega’.” The words spilled faster than John could follow them sometimes, and in the end Sherlock mocked the world with dripping sarcasm, waving his hands playfully in the air to emphasize his meaning.

Slowly John nodded. His earlier anger toward Sherlock had vanished completely, only the anger toward his ex-wife loomed in his mind. Mary had exposed Sherlock, humiliated him, and tried to avert her own lies by pointing her finger at the detective.

“John,” Sherlock began his voice hesitant at the address. “There’s more,” his friend’s head snapped up, and Sherlock saw the swaying as John pleated his brows. Indecisive about his consideration, Sherlock faltered if he should go any further into the topic because surely John could put two and two together, “I’m running out of suppressants.”

A small twitch between John’s brows showed that he didn’t sense Sherlock’s meaning. “I don’t understand. You said Mycroft purchases them for you.”

“Yes. But our supplier, the private doctor of our family, died a couple of days ago. And I just have one blister pack left which means my cover might get busted in about four weeks.” _Concretely, I’m going into heat_. A soft pink painted his cheeks down to his neck, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. Yet it was an important point for John to understand the matter to the full extent. Through his bond he felt a flicker of turmoil, but not in a bad way, rather a soft flutter of hope that reciprocated Sherlock’s emotions, sending electrifying impulses down his spine, manifesting in his inner core. It made his hackles raise at the faint whisper of an arousal. Fidgeting in his armchair, he stood abruptly up, startling John. “What I want to say is…” he paced to the desk and back agitated, trying desperately to distract himself from such sweet temptation like hope, “I need to find another solution to my _predicament_.”

John blinked in confusion, his mind rattling of what Sherlock might want him to say. What could he possibly do to help his friend? “I can’t get suppressants for you, Sherlock.” It wasn’t a question of not wanting. As a doctor he was able to get medicaments without problems, but procuring hormonal contraceptives for Omegas bordered upon the impossible.

Of course John jumped to the wrong conclusion, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know _you_ can’t, but I know _someone_ who probably could.” He stopped in front of John, eyes boring into his friend’s steel blue. Since Mycroft had delivered the bad news about Dr. Olson’s dead Sherlock had considered John repeatedly. Would he let him in on his plan when Mary forced to unveil his secret? They would walk along the border of legality, dragging John down with him if something went wrong. In the worst case John might lose his medical license. But like his friend pointed out earlier if he got involved he would want to make his own decisions. And Sherlock had to acknowledge that it was simply safer to take John along.

“Who?” John asked warily when Sherlock seemed lost in his contemplations.

“Dr. Samantha Gale.”

“The doctor from the newspapers?” John frowned, “The one who treated the dead Omega?”

Sherlock sensed John’s suspicions not because Sherlock would disclose his gender to that doctor, but because she was involved in the case, being a suspect for a murder for a short time. Even though Sherlock found no evidence, it made John’s skin crawl. “John,” Sherlock appealed softly to his friend’s rationality, “Dr. Gale didn’t murder Mrs. Miller. It’s just wishful thinking by the prosecution to take her off the streets, to wear her down and reveal the names of her patients.”

Huffing a mirthless laugh, John stood up, squaring his shoulders protectively in front of Sherlock, “And you suggest being one of the names?”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, yet the words stuck in his throat at the gruesome reality. “I have no other choice,” he spoke quietly, but John understood the conflict-laden emphasis. His friend always felt comfortable in his skin; aloof, obnoxious and unsocial were the attributes best ascribed to Sherlock Holmes as he pranced at crime scenes, deductions escaping his mouth faster than others could think. But right now John sensed the tacit despair as Sherlock pressed his lips to a thin line, holding himself by crossing his arms in a tight grip.

Suddenly the room seemed too small again, and Sherlock caught the gravitation toward John. They stood way too close to each other as John had gotten up from his armchair. Even John sensed the density pressing at them as his eyes wandered from Sherlock’s eyes down to his bruised throat; pale alabaster skin seeking contrast to the pink stripes which displayed the brutal fingers of the other Alpha. The memory of that day still prominent in his mind made John swallow hard. With a sudden intake of breath, he retreated a few steps toward the kitchen, bringing space between them. As a pretext he walked to the kitchen counter, flicking the kettle to prepare tea. “All right then,” he replied eventually to Sherlock’s questioning look, “I’ll go with you.”

Sherlock leant at the door frame of the kitchen, blinking John’s sudden agitation away – ignoring it as he realized that their friendship of before his jump wouldn’t be possible anymore. Especially now he expected more awkward moments between them than he wished, but it seemed inevitable, and he hoped they would get used to it – to their new friendship.

“I want us to appear at Dr. Gale’s surgery as Alpha and Omega.”

The sentence slipped so casually from Sherlock’s lips that John stopped shocked in the middle of pouring hot water into their mugs. The scalding hot fluid ran over the rim of the mug, wetting the kitchen surface, and John cursed under his breath. While he ripped some paper towels from the kitchen roll, he stuttered sheepishly, “As a couple?”

“Like this we appear trustworthy. I’ve been investigating in her case. She might have become suspicious.” Sherlock hadn’t moved from the door frame, observing John with curious eyes.

“You like to kick it into high gear with me, don’t you?” John rubbed his neck. Not only had he learnt today that he wasn’t going to be a father because of his ex-wife’s gender, but also that Sherlock lived as a hidden Omega. Sherlock started to stretch their friendship once again. “It’s quite a tall order.”

Lowering his baritone even deeper, he nearly purred, “I need your help with this, John.”

_Manipulative bastard!_ John scolded mentally at both of them; at Sherlock for appealing to John’s nature as an Alpha in the want of protecting an Omega and at himself for letting the manipulation happen. “Alright, we’ll go together – as a couple, but –,“ he paused to give Sherlock a moment to consider that he didn’t get John’s help for free, “– I want you to remove your Alpha scent…”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice betrayed a warning.

“No, listen,” John waved his index finger to silence his friend, “You don’t have to remove the scent necessarily now, but I want you to remove it within the next couple of weeks, Sherlock – only at home, of course.” The wet paper towels ended up in the bin as John stepped closer to his friend to make his point clear, “I want to get used to this scent so that such an _accident_ never occurs again.” He handed the dried mug over to Sherlock, “It’s that, or I don’t move in.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, swallowing hard at John’s request, yet in the end Sherlock nodded in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d say this chapter marks the end of part 1 of this fiction. Because the whole fic isn’t finished yet, I’d leave it open to come back when the story’s told. Consider that the main story gets it kick-off now ;)


	7. Unbreakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)
> 
> Next update will be March 12th.

John awoke to the familiar noises of Baker Street outside of 221B. A cool breeze blew through the open window and made him shiver, forcing him to curl into the warm duvet. A restless sleep had made him toss from one side to the other – too many thoughts crawling back to his mind. Steel blue eyes wandered through the room, _his_ room again.

It was strange, being back again as if he hadn’t been gone, as if Sherlock hadn’t died, as if he hadn’t met Mary – as if all those lies would never have happened. He rolled onto his back, stretching the stiffness off his body, looking at the green wallpaper above the headboard. _As if the last three years never happened._

Somehow, he wished it was true. Without Mary and her deceptions he wouldn’t hurt so much now, still mourning a child that never existed. He clenched his jaws, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets to prevent stupid tears to emerge again. A daughter, Mary had said, and he had imagined buying her sweet little dresses, playing with her, showing her the world, protecting her, fending off possible dates in her teens – all this was lost within a moment of truth, leaving him in despair. Inhaling sharply, he tried to even his breathing as he recognized that all those years back he didn’t know about Sherlock’s secret yet. Even now he wasn’t quite sure if he really would have wanted to learn that detail of his friend’s life. With Sherlock being an Omega they could never return to their life of before his fall to death. Not only was John terrified of his friend getting infected by an almost forgotten disease, but it also left an awkward feeling of living together as Alpha and Omega.

_Alpha and Omega_ : a bond that nature predetermined for them – a natural liaison. But Sherlock made it quite clear that he sought no natural solution. John wasn’t stupid. Although he never met an Omega before, he was born in times where the rare gender still lived. Even during his medical training he needed to study the basics. If Sherlock consumed the last pill of his contraceptives he ran a chance of two alternatives; either hiding away from the world or finding an Alpha, helping him with the heats to suppress his hormonal level to a low stage outside of those three to five unstable days of his cycle.

It made his whole body ripple with goose bumps. The mere knowledge of his friend being an Omega inflicted a sharp impact on his biochemistry. For a second he actually presumed that Sherlock might have suggested becoming mates when he told John about running out of his suppressants. Of course that was a ludicrous assumption based on his one-sided emotions. Sherlock had never sought a relationship, and even his predicament didn’t lead him to such a conclusion; at least the detective didn’t show it.

Reluctantly, John swung his legs over the edge of his bed. _Mates?_ The thought drifted through his mind like a recurring wave. Sherlock always occupied a special position in his life, and John more than once had considered a relationship beyond friendship. But since Sherlock jumped from the rooftop of St. Bart’s his faith had been broken, not to mention that he already was in a relationship back then. The blunt lie had hurt him, left him broken, never receiving an answer of why his best friend didn’t include him into his plan, into _Lazarus_. Trust was still a big ask even more so after the last evening. Even though his friend told him the truth in the end, John feared that Sherlock still hid something. Would that ever stop? Would he ever be able to trust his friend completely?

He rummaged his suitcase for his blue striped terry robe and shrugged into it, fending the chill of his bedroom. With a towel over his shoulder he headed downstairs for a hot shower. The flat, still quiet, betrayed no sign of his flatmate. Perhaps Sherlock was still asleep. John remembered that the detective usually worked till the morning hours just to sleep until midday. On his way to the bathroom John crossed the kitchen and stopped short in front of the table, frowning. A single place setting was arranged on the table; a plate and a mug already prepared with a tea egg. On the plate lay a slip of paper.

_I have to keep an appointment. We’ll meet 2 p.m. at Dr. Gale’s surgery. – Sherlock._

His friend had written the address at the right bottom corner of the paper. John knitted his eyebrows, contemplating why Sherlock hadn’t told him about his plans. His throat made a clicking noise in the silent flat as he swallowed the creeping discomfort. It let his hackles raise. The unsolicited reminder of Morbus caused a thunderstorm in his chest. Even the notion of other Alpha’s near his friend let him shudder with an aggressive glare at the note. As he realized what was happening to him, John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath and suddenly an unasked question popped into his mind. Would he be able to resist the temptation of Sherlock’s natural scent?

He had requested it from his friend. But could he truly get used to the scent? It wasn’t just the sweet fragrance of an Omega but pheromones; biochemical reactions in a mutual waltz of cause and effect. Without another glance at the note, he headed for the bathroom, changing his mind and deciding for a rather cool shower.

As the lukewarm water ran down his body, wetting his honey colored hair and slicking down strands to his forehead. With a stroke of his hand he brushed it back and grabbed Sherlock’s shower gel. He took a careful sniff before he lathered his body. It reminded him that he needed to buy his own stuff after their appointment at Dr. Gale’s surgery, already making a mental list for Tesco’s.

The fragrance of the shower gel was fresh and intense, hitting John’s olfactory nerves, and he regretted using it the same moment his hands rubbed it over his body. _Too much_. Now he would smell Sherlock all over the day way too present. Sighing, he let the water wash it away while his hands trailed his broad shoulders, tracing the protruding tissue of his scar. He rubbed the soap down his body until his hand swept from his navel down to the base of his shaft. With a slight pressure he searched for the tissue that would swell when the right stimulus would be given. Yet there was nothing – no knot, as always. Since he reached puberty he hadn’t spared a thought about this particular anatomy of his Alpha nature. He had never assumed meeting an Omega, especially after they had been declared extinct. A shiver ran down his spine at the very possibility of producing a knot. The first time in his life he realized that there was so much more to being an Alpha than he ever expected for himself. Would have someone asked him a few years ago of how he would envision his future, for sure he would have answered a marriage with a Beta woman and having children. But then he met Sherlock, and John knew that he wasn’t able to live such a normal life; even if he later tried such a life with Mary.

And now Sherlock had shown him completely new paths which he had never considered. John didn’t try too hard to imagine Sherlock at the end of one of the paths. The detective got his point across and his solution didn’t include John as an Alpha, only John’s help.

He grabbed his towel to rub himself dry, his mind betraying him as it brought up those imprinted images of Sherlock’s bruised throat back. The memories always provoked a small gasp of horror from John, pressing on his chest with a tight grip, a sentiment he couldn’t easily fend off. That engulfing scent had made him a captive of his hormones. He still felt the urge to press his nose along the long neck of his friend, inhaling the sweet fragrance. Another shiver crept down his spine, not a shiver which spoke of an upcoming arousal but fear. Fear that he might not restrain his self-control the next time. What was he thinking when he proposed to Sherlock to not apply the Alpha fragrance one day? Perhaps he should rescind his premature request. Suddenly he was too afraid another _accident_ might occur and shatter their friendship completely.

While eating his breakfast alone, John contemplated over and over again how he could help his best friend. Sherlock seemed so desperate, and John still didn’t like the idea of exposing him to this Dr. Gale. After the breakfast, his mind left him dizzy, shifting through every possible solution, but he found only one acceptable conclusion he was willing to risk – Mike Stamford.

As John put the dishes into the sink to wash them, he remembered that Mike was also a friend to Sherlock, and he trusted him. Of course he couldn’t explain the whole truth to Mike. Sherlock mentioned no restrictions to their conversation of last night, but with all certainty he wanted his secret to be safe. If not for Mary, even John wouldn’t know about it. Uncomfortable by the upcoming lies to a friend, he shifted restlessly from one leg to the other.

After unpacking his suitcase and filling his closet with the small remnants of his clothes, he dressed himself in blue jeans and a gray and white checkered button-down shirt. Because of the chilly air outside, he also decided for his gray cardigan which meant more warm clothing to him but to conceal his Sig from curious eyes. He had texted Mike, and they arranged to meet at lunch in St. Bart’s cafeteria.

On his way for the front door he left the last of his belongings – DVDs and books – in the living room. His laptop found its old place on the left side of the desk again, opposite Sherlock’s working place. Before he turned to go, his glance set upon a half hidden photo beneath the detective’s laptop. John retrieved it with curious tension. As a rule, his friend wasn’t as careless to leave client’s pictures lying around in the flat. The photo revealed a man around Sherlock’s age, blond cropped hair, sharp features hidden by a hearty smile. Maybe Sherlock’s appointment had something to do with this man? A client or missing person? But why had his friend excluded him then?

Well, he could ask Sherlock later as he checked his watch for the time. If he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his appointment. So he hailed a cab in front of 221B which was faster than the tube.

At St. Bart’s he scurried along the labyrinth of the long corridors of the hospital. Remembering how he got lost the first time he worked here, he greeted every familiar face with a smile. A nurse had lost a medical chart and John helped her to pick up the documents from the linoleum covered floor. She rewarded him with a grateful smile before she left in the opposite direction while John turned around for the cafeteria, bumping into a broad chest, stumbling backwards.

“Excuse me,” rasped an unfamiliar voice.

“Sorry,” mumbled John, trying to compose himself and looked up into the face of the man from the photo. _No missing person_. _A client?_

“John?” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled from behind the man. He found John dumbfounded, sharing glances between Sherlock and the blond man – an Alpha. The distinct scent filled his nose, letting his nostrils flare at the unknown rush of utter possessiveness. “What are you doing here?”

“Lunch with Mike,” he gestured with his hand for the cafeteria across the corridor, still swaying at the irritation of this awkward meeting. _Since when does Sherlock take clients along? And since when does he not want me to come along?_

“What are _you_ doing here?” John blinked irritated, shifting his weight to square his shoulders. The scent of the other man left him bewildered, and a strong urge of concern surfaced, making place for the emphasis of reproach in the question.

“A case,” Sherlock answered curtly, his eyes scowling at John for the necessity of explaining himself, “Not worth mentioning. Boring case.”

John’s heart hammered with a fierce rhythm against his ribcage. A case had lured Sherlock into the hospital, and he had chosen not to take John along on purpose. His eyes shot the other man precarious glances. The blond man was tall, a few inches taller than Sherlock, with broad shoulders yet almost as slender as the detective. His maroon colored eyes offered an astonishing contrast to his ash-blonde short hair, a few fading freckles covered his nose and cheeks. He left a warm impression – in contrary to Sherlock, aloof as he was – clad in casual wear with black jeans, a navy blue jumper over a white shirt and a black leather short coat.

With a sigh and an exaggerated eye roll Sherlock shrugged unperturbed, looking at the taller man and gesturing for John, “This is John Watson,” his voice betraying the edge of annoyance, and John flinched inwardly as Sherlock even added, “My colleague.”

A frown let John’s eyebrows fold, a crease building over the ridge of his nose at the cold introduction. He held his hand to the other man for a formal handshake, “Nice to meet you.”

While Sherlock left his tone as neutral as possible, he continued, “John, this is Victor Trevor. An old friend of mine.”

Flabbergasted at the remark John tried to sort his memories. Could he possibly have forgotten about a friend of Sherlock? Was he really so egoistic to assume the detective had just one friend?

Victor’s long fingers curled around John’s as both Alphas locked sharp eyes for a moment, a sparkle betraying an unspoken challenge. Again John sensed his nature dictating him his behavior, his hair standing upright at the possible rival, and for sure the other man felt the same even though Victor’s smile let his eyes dance with laughter lines. They concealed their turmoil behind exchanging pleasantries, yet their firm handshake begged to differ.

All of a sudden Victor’s expression changed from friendly to surprised, “Oh, you’re his friend, the one Sherlock shares the flat with. I’ve read about you in the newspapers.” Another flinch flashed through John as he recognized whereas Sherlock failed to introduce him as a friend, Victor pointed the blunt truth out; not to mention that presumably Sherlock hadn’t told Victor a word about John, but all he knew of the doctor he had learnt from the newspapers. It hurt.

_So, no client_. John recognized after Victor released his hand, followed by an awkward silence for a moment while Sherlock’s eyes darted between the two Alphas back and forth. The moment stretched into an uncomfortable length as he realized that it was expected from him to make the next social step. But social didn’t fit with Sherlock, so he folded his arms and pouted at the situation.

At last Victor broke the silence, shooting Sherlock a quizzical look. “Weren’t we just on our way to a cup of coffee?” Then the blond man turned to face John, asking in a polite tone, “Fancy a cuppa?”

Victor, an affable guy as it seemed, shoved the unspoken rivalry aside as John observed that the man knew Sherlock’s secret; he smelled the obvious shift in his scent from aggressive to calm. Apparently he had his emotions far better in control than John. But John couldn’t be fooled. Cause and effect, he recognized as the tall man composed himself, and Sherlock affected, seemed to relax too, arms dropping to his sides. Although within Victor might rage a storm, he suppressed it on purpose to comfort the Omega. John saw that the other Alpha was experienced in dealing with the rare gender.

John’s mind raced while he searched for a logical conclusion but failed. He didn’t want that man to leave with Sherlock, his whole body screaming against the idea. Flexing his left hand, it took all his effort to reply, “No, thank you, I’ll be late for lunch with my friend.”

The brows of the tall man shot up. He hadn’t expected a refusal. A slow smile curled around his lips, “Maybe next time then.” John nodded guarded as the other men turned to go. Victor leant into Sherlock then, placing his hand at the small of the detective’s back to guide him with gentle pressure to the exit. “Goodbye, John.”

“Later,” the word echoed empty in his head even though John had spoken it himself. A rushing noise pressed into his ear, silencing his surroundings and isolating him from the world. It felt shallow; not only the farewell but the whole situation. _What was that?_ He shot Sherlock a pleading look, but his friend avoided John’s eyes.

As they turned around the next corner, out of side, John fell back against the wall. Doctors, nurses, patients or visitors walked on by, ignoring him. Sherlock’s behavior was irrational and utterly rude towards John which never happened but once in Grimpen near Baskerville. As John mulled over and over to find a solution of why he wanted to conceal his other Alpha friend, he sensed the emptiness crushing down on him, pressing at his shoulders with a dead weight.

_Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched_. His mind reverted to that particular piece of memory, making his hands curl into tight fists, nails digging into his palms. He noticed the anger rising in him, a mix of his own stupidity and Sherlock’s cold aloofness. Why was he all churned up inside? He had no right – no claim. Sherlock made it clear: he wanted John’s help, not John himself. As he inhaled and exhaled with deep breaths to calm down, he realized that he couldn’t help it but his nature was gaining the upper hand. Swallowing hard, he rolled his shoulders, straightening himself. His lips pursed as he suppressed the urge of possessiveness crawling beneath his skin. Yet it left a nagging sensation: would he have reacted the same way if he wouldn’t have known about Sherlock’s gender?

“John,” the warm voice of Mike Stamford, slightly out of breath, ripped him out of his contemplations. John’s head snapped up, looking into the reassuring smile of his old friend. “Sorry, I’m a little late. Got caught up with some students.”

“It’s okay. I just arrived,” John lied for the first time on this day, aware that other lies would follow.

They headed for the cafeteria, which was crowded at that time of the day. John invited his friend for lunch as he paid for both at the cash desk. Fortunately they found a silent corner near the window front. John still tried to shrug off the pressing sensation of following Sherlock to check if it really was all right to leave him with the other Alpha. And then he cringed mentally at the realization that every time they visited St. Bart’s Sherlock put himself at risk of getting infected with Morbus. _Damn!_ He cursed to himself. While all the time his possessiveness lingered in a tight knot in the pit of his stomach, he had ignored his protectiveness. _I’m a miserable Alpha_.

“How’s Mary?” Mike’s sudden question dragged him once again out of his thoughts. “Isn’t she due yet?”

John’s eyes widened, noticing that he hadn’t talked to Mike for at least six months. Of course he didn’t know. But more alarming was the fact that he hadn’t wasted a thought about Mary when he had texted him; his focus was entirely set on finding a solution for Sherlock.

“Um…” he cleared his voice, “We’re divorced since yesterday.” Mike’s jaw dropped open, forming a silent _Oh_. Well, at least it seemed to Mike the reason John wanted to talk to him included the divorce. “And…” John swallowed at the imminent lie, averting his eyes to his lunch, poking at some peas, “… we lost the baby four months ago.”

“Oh God, John. I’m so sorry,” Mike responded with honest sympathy as John again flinched inwardly.

“Yeah… anyway…”

“Where do you live now?”

“I moved back in to 221B,” John nodded once as a vague smile crossed Mike’s lips.

“Back with Sherlock again.” A statement, not a question.

John recognized the innuendo, but ignored it to find the perfect starting point to the actual subject, “We’re working together again.” He shoved the fork with impaled peas into his mouth, chewing a moment to contemplate how to put it without arousing suspicion. “Perhaps you’ve heard about the dead female Omega?”

“Oh yes, thought there were no Omegas anymore,” Mike made a distressed face, but he seemed genuinely relieved that John sought no comfort about his broken marriage.

“Yeah, thought so, too,” John remembered the day they found her, the stench had made him retch. “Well, that’s the case we’re working on, and I wanted to ask you some Omega related questions since you’ve been very invested with them during our studies.”

Mike gave an affirmative nod, “They’re tremendously interesting.”

“The doctor who treated the Omega is accused of hiding the supposed victim behind her medical confidentiality. And it’s presumed that the doctor might have other patients, helping them with suppressants or pregnancy without reporting them.”

“I read Morbus killed the Omega,” Mike frowned, and then asked in all honesty, “And how would the doctor be able to help with suppressants when they aren’t available anymore?”

“Those are exactly my thoughts,” John took a sharp intake of breath, preparing for the question, “But you see, I’m just working at a small surgery, and I assumed that you, working at a hospital, might know a little more.”

Mike stilled for a moment, looking at John and blowing out his cheeks. “I know little more,” he confessed, and John understood that his friend would break his contract by telling him anything hospital-related. “The last suppressants in the medical depot of St. Bart’s were destroyed seven years ago by order of the government. As I recall the nationwide order included all hospitals which were instructed to eliminate the last remnants of the contraceptives.” He paused, trying to remember, “Before, they were available only on prescription for old or diseased Omegas.”

“Then how could that doctor procure those pills?”

Shrugging his shoulder, Mike went for assumptions, “Maybe she had remainders?” He furrowed his brows, “But it wouldn’t be wise to sell them. The last suppressants were manufactured those seven years ago. Their best-before date wouldn’t exceed three years which means most of it must have been expired since four years, and taking those certainly isn’t healthy.”

John flinched at the statement. Sherlock swallowed those seemingly expired pills every day. “But maybe she synthesized it herself?”

“That’s unlikely. You would need a big lab for it,” he chewed his steak, contemplating as he came up with another idea. “She might also have purchased it at the black market. I’ve only heard rumors, but some private producers seem to manufacture and sell them for a high prize.”

A frown made John’s forehead crease at the sad realization that he had a very little chance to get at suppressants for Sherlock. With no remainders, he needed to get in touch with a dealer. Unfortunately he didn’t know any dealers. This was Sherlock’s job – a remnant of his recreational drug use. No. That wasn’t an option.

The rest of their conversation diverted back to their personal life. John learnt that Mike would marry his longtime girlfriend next year; a stab into John’s still sore wound, but he didn’t blame his friend for the situation.

A taxi drove John to the surgery of Dr. Gale. After a short ride he arrived a little too early this time. While waiting he searched the web to learn more about suppressants and the political agenda. He recognized that he knew so little, even about his own nature. In the army he met six Alphas in his unit, but among his friends he was just acquainted with Betas. Meeting the other Alpha today, he felt his claim of friendship upon Sherlock slip through his fingers like small sand grains. An unknown fear crept up his spine at the memory. The worst was he even couldn’t name his irritation; he wanted to protect Sherlock, wanted to keep him close, wanted to lock him up so he wouldn’t come near the danger of Morbus or any other Alpha. The mix of overwhelming emotions left him nauseated, already regretting his lunch.

Shortly before two o’clock a cab indicated the arrival of the detective. John sighed in relief. Since he had waited, the thought occurred to him that Sherlock would bring Victor with him. _After all, he has taken him along on another case_. But he came alone. Yet a small whisper in his mind asked John, why Sherlock had wanted him to visit Dr. Gale instead of Victor.

The former tension seemed to have slipped off of Sherlock as he greeted John the second time of this day. But John’s body proceeded otherwise. Too many questions lingered in his head.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked lightly, gesturing for the front door of the surgery. Without doubt, he sensed John’s inner turmoil, but he chose to ignore it and hoped that John would choose it likewise.

Dr. Gale, a gynecologist for all genders, had her surgery decorated with subdued flowers, pictures of children as well as information pamphlets about how to increase fertility. A derisive snort from Sherlock dragged John from his observations as he realized that it might be a bit conspicuous when two men paid the doctor a visit. Interestingly, no other patients waited in the anteroom. At the reception a friendly looking nurse greeted as Sherlock introduced them for their appointment.

After a minute Dr. Gale emerged from her office. “Mr. Holmes,” she reached her hand for the detective, tension seeping through her body language.

“Dr. Gale,” Sherlock squeezed the offered hand, a false smile playing across his face, removing its typical sharpness to produce a façade of confidentiality. His eyes scanned the middle aged woman at once. Even though nervousness betrayed by her shifting eyes she tried to maintain her tough composure. “This is Dr. Watson. We investigate together.”

“I don’t know why this is necessary?” Piercing green eyes bored into the detective, showing her annoyance about the meeting. “I’ve already told the police everything I know and made my affidavit for the prosecution. Really, I don’t see the point.”

Sherlock shot the nurse a glance. “I’d like to discuss this in your office. I can assure you I was asked by detective inspector Lestrade to exonerate you with the charge of murder, not to prove it.”

Her tension passed a bit as Dr. Gale’s shoulders slumped defeated while she showed them the way to her office, “Fine.”

The office was small with a second door leading to the adjacent treatment room. Dr. Gale took a seat at her walnut desk, gesturing for her guests to sit down on the opposite side of the table. Behind her, shelves reached from bottom to ceiling, crammed with medical books. John spotted even one book about Omega anatomy. As he had searched the web for reliable information he soon realized that twenty years had been enough to build more or less myths about the rare gender.

“First, prosecution has nothing to hold against you. There’s no proof for murder, and withholding information by wish of your patients won’t be enough for a charge.” His hand slipped into the inside pocket of his Belstaff, “As long as you stick to your original statement you’ll remain free.” He produced a folded paper from the pocket and shoved it over the desk toward the doctor.

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock, knowing the content of the print too well, but the detective ignored the confused glaring. Dr. Gale unfolded the paper, and her eyes hardened at once as she read the coded names of her Omega patients. Pursing her lips, her nostrils flared, “I thought you were here to exonerate me?”

“I am,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Please read the last name.”

Her eyes shot up, meeting Sherlock’s intense gaze. “This is a trap to lure me out.” Anger rising, she tossed the paper back toward Sherlock as John got a good look at the letters. With a frown he noticed that Sherlock had added a new line to the other names. And then the scales fell from his eyes. The last line concealed Sherlock’s name. He had added it to show it the doctor. Understandably, she would read it as a trap. If she per se believed him he could use it against her, nail her down.

“Take my blood then,” Sherlock suggested, holding out his hand, “Pekosterone can only be found in an Omega’s blood. You must have a quick test. Go on, test me.”

The outstretched hand in front of her intensified the detective’s meaning, and his eyes were challenging. They stared at each other for a while, and John began to fidget impatiently in his seat. Another urge to just get up and drag Sherlock out of the surgery made his skin tingle as he tried to suppress the feeling, flexing his hands.

“All right,” Dr. Gale finally consented, putting an unruly blond strand behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She knew Sherlock Holmes from the newspaper; the detective who had faked his own dead and solved innumerable crimes. Why would he expose himself in front of her?

She stood up to get her medical equipment and placed it onto her desk while Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and jacket, rolling up the sleeve of his purple button-down shirt.

“I’m going to draw the blood,” John instantly sprang to his feet, startling Dr. Gale and Sherlock likewise. The protectiveness engulfed the Alpha once again. In his eyes the gynecologist was still a suspect. He would never allow her to touch Sherlock.

John moved his chair so he could face Sherlock, their knees brushing against each other while he put a pair of nitrile gloves on. Apologetic eyes looked at his friend, fearing Sherlock might be upset with the interference of his strategy. All the more, John was surprised by the appreciative eyes of his friend whose hand now hovered over John’s lap; the contrast of Sherlock’s earlier scolding mood even more apparent.

Gently, John’s hand cupped Sherlock’s hand, curling it into a fist while his other hand opened the clip of the tourniquet. The coarse fabric brushed along the sensitive alabaster skin as John shoved the sling over his arm, causing rippled skin, soft hair standing upright and tickling John’s fingers. A shudder flashed through John’s body, realizing that he never needed a needle to patch his friend up. And now he was about to breach his skin if only for a small puncture. He pulled the tourniquet tight around Sherlock’s upper arm, and the pit of John’s stomach dropped the same moment. The problem wasn’t breaching the creamy skin but rather the procedure of drawing blood from a friend. Even though he had done this a thousand times before, the prospect of hurting Sherlock caused a tight knot in his stomach.

While Sherlock pumped his fist to create a partial blood stasis, John leant closer, fingers stroking along his friend’s crook of the arm, palpating the vein. He needn’t search for long as Sherlock’s body frame made him already see the pulsing bluish streak, protruding beneath a thin layer of flesh.

The spray of the antiseptic agent felt cool to the skin, and Sherlock stifled a gasp. With John that close to probe his responsive skin a blush crept up his face, painting his cheekbones pink. Meanwhile, John had freed the cannula from its packing, positioning it at the throbbing evidence of Sherlock’s life. Yet he hesitated once again, chewing his bottom lip.

“Oh, for God’s sake, John,” Sherlock scolded, swallowing his own turmoil for rationality. “If you can’t do it, I certainly can.”

The Alpha looked confused up, visibly flinching at the harsh words. But Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t turned into those sharp piercing jewels. Although his rich voice stressed a warning, he just wanted to rip John from his uncertain reluctance, to reassure him.

It worked, and John huffed a small laugh. The sharp cannula breached skin and blood vessel. John rolled his tongue over his bottom lip contently, grabbing a small tube from the desk to attach it to the cannula with an audible click. Blood poured into the tube, filling it in a mere second. With a cautious pressure John put a swab over the needle, extracting the cannula together with the tube. Sherlock’s fingers brushed over John’s, implying that he would hold the swab in place.

Unplugging the cannula, John handed the dark red tube over to Dr. Gale. “It’ll take a moment,” she explained and left for her small laboratory to test the sample for pekosterone.

Meanwhile, John released Sherlock’s pressing fingers from the crook of his elbow to apply a plaster over the tiny wound, blood still swelling from it. Absent-mindedly, he reached for Sherlock’s sleeve to unroll it and reaped a small huff of laughter that tore him from his doing, startled about his behavior.

“I think I can do that myself,” the reproach hung in the air, but its sharpness was taken by the detective’s shy smile.

John’s ears flushed red as he turned his chair back into its original position, bringing as much space between them as possible. His look was glued to his hands in his laps, pulling off the white gloves. Beside him he heard the rustling of Sherlock’s clothes as he shrugged into his jacket and coat again.

For a while they sat in silence, neither of them daring to speak about the awkward situation. After ten minutes the doctor reentered her office, handing the small tube with the remaining blood and a test strip back. Like this she gave all the evidence of Sherlock being an Omega back; no entry for the records. The gesture spoke of trust, Sherlock acknowledged.

“So,” Dr. Gale sat down, elbows propped on her desk, entwining her fingers and looking pointedly at her guests, “What can I do for you, gentlemen? For sure, you aren’t here because of the case.”

A winning smile curled around Sherlock’s lips. “The case is already solved, Dr. Gale,” he admitted. “I… um… _we_ need your help.”

A frown knitted the eyebrows of the doctor, “You aren’t pregnant, are you?” Her question spoke of disbelief, and Sherlock recognized that she was a good observer.

“No,” he emphasized, the thought too ridiculous. He tried again, remembering to act like a couple in the effort to gain her trust, “We –“

Dr. Gale’s eyes darted to John, scrutinizing him with all clarity. “There is no ‘ _we’_ , Mr. Holmes.”

John felt his hackles raise at the impertinence of the gynecologist’s repeated interruption. _What does it matter?_ “We’re a couple, and we need your help,” he swallowed his rising anger about the imposed exposure.

“No, you’re not,” she nearly snapped, boring her green eyes into John’s, “And if you seek my help, I demand honesty, Dr. Watson.” As John wanted to protest again, the doctor waved a warning finger, “I’ve been treating Omegas for over twenty five years. I’ve seen couples come and go, asking for contraceptives or pregnancy management. By now I can tell the difference of couples, especially since Morbus gained center stage. And I can see that you’re _not_ a couple.”

The small smile never faded from Sherlock’s lips, impressed by the doctor’s observational skills. “How?”

“It’s mostly him –,” she pointed her chin toward John, “– and partly you.” Disentangling her fingers, she rested her arms on the desk, leaning closer. “Dr. Watson drawing your blood was rather clinical, and your response failed to be sensual. Any other Omega would have been able to reassure their partner with a soothing touch, yet you remained stoic and even scolded him.”

“Maybe we’re different,” Sherlock challenged, never losing eye contact with the gynecologist. He found the conversation rather interesting.

“Maybe, but unlikely,” Dr. Gale raised her chin in defiance. “Mr. Holmes, you don’t have to pretend to be someone else. Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll decide to help or not.”

Sherlock’s smile faded as his lips pressed to a thin line. “I have lived on suppressants since I was seventeen, but now I’m running out of them. The doctor who sold them died two weeks ago. And since you’re treating Omegas I was wondering if you could help me out.”

“With suppressants?” Dr. Gale pressed the detective as his question wasn’t quite clear.

“Yes.”

She fell back into her chair with a sigh, her eyes darting to John and then back to Sherlock. This was a tricky subject, and Sherlock literally saw her struggle. “Suppressants haven’t been produced in seven years, Mr. Holmes. And I don’t have any remainders. I’m sorry.”

Clenching his jaws at the statement, Sherlock struggled for his composure. _There has to be another option_. The sentence repeated in his head like a recurring tidal wave. He blinked irritated, “But –“

“Look,” Dr. Gale straightened her back, trying to reason her guest, “I’ve helped Omegas during their pregnancy, but I never prescribed or sold suppressants since they had to be destroyed by governmental order. This might cost my medical license, Mr. Holmes. Please understand.” Her eyes shot John another glance, “Perhaps you should consider a real partner.”

Sherlock’s lips wavered a bit before he leant forward, answering in a snap. “Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to decide my own fate.”

John cast his eyes down, wincing mentally at his friend’s determined tone. “Sherlock…” It was a weak attempt to calm his friend, Dr. Gale’s words failing to soothe his supposed Omega still echoing in his ears.

Sherlock’s lips shut tight, biting the inside of his cheeks and glowering at Dr. Gale for a moment before he decided to save the last remnants of his dignity and got up. “Let’s go, John.” The rich baritone merely a whisper made John’s eyes close, punishing himself at his own failure while the pain seeped into his heart.

“Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Gale left her seat, too, “The second name on the list belongs to a female Omega. For three years, she has visited me twice a year for medical check-ups. She’s homeless. Unfortunately, she’s also a drug addict and works as a dealer. I know that she takes suppressants which she purchases at the black market. If you can find her she might be willing to help you for the right prize.”

The frown dissolved into comprehension as Sherlock nodded, “Thank you.”

Outside he sucked cool air into his lung as if the density of the surgery had taken enough oxygen to suffocate him. The doctor’s proposal wasn’t exactly what he had hoped, but she had opened another door, another possibility to escape an unwanted fate. The prospect hung over his head like Damocles’ sword, yet he wouldn’t give up until the sword crushed down on him.

John sensed the conflict in his friend. Their conversation didn’t result like Sherlock had wished, and John interpreted the oscillation of his friend as his own failure in acting his Alpha. “Maybe you should’ve taken Victor along.”

Narrowing his eyes at John, Sherlock’s voice got clipped, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

John furrowed his brows as he struggled for an honest reply – honest to himself. A certain degree of jealousy mingled with the sheer want of protecting his friend. But how could he protect Sherlock when he barely knew the other Alpha?

“I don’t know,” John sighed, “I just think he would’ve acted his part of the play better than me. Probably Dr. Gale would’ve been more inclined to help you with a more convincing Alpha.”

“Rubbish!” Sherlock’s face contorted into a grimace of disbelief.

But John didn’t give up. “Why haven’t you asked Victor to accompany you? You didn’t seem having a problem with the case earlier.” Usually John wouldn’t dig the truth up. Unsure if Sherlock’s gender caused this or the fact he had lied repeatedly to him, John wanted a clarification.

“Because you’re my friend, and I trust you,” Sherlock declared matter-of-factly as if the encounter in the hospital hadn’t occurred.

A mirthless laugh escaped John. “Three hours ago it didn’t sound like that.”

“What do you mean?” Either the detective really didn’t understand, or he played stupid.

John crossed his arms, broadening his shoulders to brace himself for the confrontation. “You were pretty rude, you know, dismissive. You even introduced me as a colleague, not your friend.”

“Oh, that.” A minor epiphany struck Sherlock, eyebrows arching. “Well, I haven’t seen Victor for almost seventeen years. How could I trust him?” He paused, locking warm eyes with John in the plea of understanding, “By the way, that’s why I wanted you to accompany me.”

The detective had always been prone to explanations which led to more questions than before. Too often he needed John to point out that people were missing his meaning. “Then who is he, Sherlock?”

For a moment they just looked at each other. Sherlock realized that John wouldn’t let go of the subject and sighed a long breath. His hand gently cupped John’s elbow, disentangling his defensive posture and dragging him around the corner into a small alley.

John noticed the tension creeping back into his friend’s body as he was going to learn another detail of his self-proclaimed miserable past. Sherlock ran a nervous hand through his mop of curls as if he wanted to extract the unwanted memories when he stopped in front of John, leaning closer to prevent other people to overhear them. “I presented at the age of fifteen,” he forced his eyes to hold the contact with John whereas he wished the ground would open and swallow him up. “It’s not like a switch which flicks, and you go into heat. Indeed, it’s a slow process. I presented as an Omega because the hormonal change implied it. In this early stage I just needed the fake Alpha scent to obscure my gender. It took another one and a half years for me to go into my first heat. Dr. Olson suggested not taking suppressants before the first cycle hit my body. It might have caused depression or other mental illnesses.” A man passed them on the pavement, and Sherlock waited for him to get out of earshot. “It happened at my last year in public school,” he cleared his voice ashamed of that part of his past. “I was so engulfed in my studies in between of the semesters that I hadn’t realized the gradual symptoms – slight fever, queasiness, inner nervousness.” At last he couldn’t stand John’s honest eyes and cast them down, chewing his bottom lip at the prospect of the next sentence. “I shared a room with Victor in the boarding home back then.”

John’s brows shot up, crinkling his forehead as understanding dawned on him. “So he was there when you went into your first heat?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to John as if he wanted to defy the truth, “It was an _accident_.”

John scrubbed a cold hand over his face, sensing Sherlock’s repulsion, nausea coursing through his stomach, making bile rise in his throat. “And then?” John licked his lips, probing for the whole truth.

“In a moment of a clear thought I called Mycroft. He separated us and brought me to my family’s house. After a few days the hormonal level went back to normal, and he gave me the long ago purchased suppressants.”

“But Victor?”

“Victor was always a friend, and after that _accident_ I was so stupid to feel obliged to establish a relationship with him. Of course it didn’t work,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. His eyes became unfocused for a moment at the pictures of his past, and John waited patiently for him to continue. “Well, at least for me. Victor seemed to be happy,” his voice grew hoarse with an emotion John had never observed before. “After seven months I decided to stop this farce, especially after it became publicly clear that Omegas were encouraged to go to regular check-ups at their gynecologists, an early stage of governmental regulations and restrictions. Until that day I didn’t realize that I had a far greater impact on Victor than assumed as he confided in me that he had bonded with me.”

At this John furrowed his brows in a deep frown. The thought that Sherlock was a bonded Omega had never occurred to him, the pang of hurt clenching on his chest. “You’re bonded?” His voice merely a whisper, he couldn’t bear to look into the pale blue sharpness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, already opening his mouth to snap at him, but then stopped as he sensed the confusion and pain. “I’m not bonded, John. He is.” His rolling baritone switched to a low comforting level.

“I don’t understand.” How would he? In the last year of school they had merely taught them the anatomical physicality of the act; no information about hormonal changes and bonds. The latter became rather a matter of myths.

“There are two kinds of bonds: a one-sided bond and a mutual bond. Victor’s bond is one-sided. If he decides he could easily break it.”

“Did he break it after your separation?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. And he really didn’t want to know at all. It left a tingling impulse to assume that Victor might sense how Sherlock felt or where he stayed at every moment.

“Wait,” suddenly John’s features got intent, “If an Alpha or Omega can break their bond why did that poor sod have to die?” He referred to the murder-suicide of Mr. and Mrs. Miller.

“Because it implied a mutual bond.” Sherlock’s eyes bored into John’s in despair, hoping his next remark would make John see, “Once a mutual bond is consummated it’s unbreakable.”

Steel blue eyes widened at the realization while agony beyond the words struck him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I’d like to confess that I haven’t read the ACD novels, so please bear with me if I haven’t met the appearance of Victor and instead used my own imagination. Second, please note that I’m neither a physician nor a virologist and everything biology-related serves only my own fictional purpose. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	8. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)
> 
> Next update will be March 26th.

Sherlock wasn’t afraid of dying, not anymore. Morbus became an inherent part of his life. When his father died, his mummy panicked and locked him away in her house for a couple of weeks. The public school took his absence as mourning over his father. But as afraid as Sherlock was at those times he was just as bored in his self-constructed prison. Against Mrs. Holmes’ wish, he returned to school even though the news about Omegas still horrified him.

During that time he began to study the viral disease. Originally, the virus affected just birds, but it mutated until the first Omega became infected. The virus infested a certain area of the hypothalamus, yet it had no effect on Alphas or Betas. While they just caught symptoms similar to a common cold, Omegas died. It took the scientists almost two years to find the exact reason – pekosterone.

Pekosterone, the hormone which caused an Omega’s cycle, existed only within the biochemistry of the rare gender. The hypothalamus produced the hormone which meant if the virus attacked this area of a human’s brain, the hormonal balance lost its harmony. As a result the immune system became devitalized, and the patient suffered the excruciating progress of a deathly meningitis.

Down to the present day the scientists failed to invent a proper vaccine. And after twenty years, Morbus had lost its horror for Sherlock. For sure, he took precautions like washing his hands and using disinfectant, but what else could he do? Death awaited everyone always on a daily basis – accidents, murders, age. _That’s what people do_.

While Sherlock didn’t fear leaving his flat to find that homeless young woman, John didn’t like the idea at all. John’s concern flashed through the bond, making Sherlock’s skin crawl. Even though his friend worked at the surgery today, he sensed the piercing self-reproach of neglect. It must have taken all John’s strength to not come home at once when the detective texted him his plans. Sometimes his friend’s self-control impressed Sherlock considerably.

When he left the safety of 221B at midday, Sherlock headed for the Vauxhall Arches. Without doubt, John would kill him later for not taking him and his Sig along, but the person he was about to meet nurtured a slight aversion against John which was the reason he went alone.

Although the weather’s overcast sky of the last days yielded for a rather bright sun, the light barely reached the inner vaults. The only source of light came from the entrances. With determined steps, Sherlock dove his way into the labyrinth of old brick arches, the echo of his shoes announcing his arrival while suspicious glances from a few homeless men and women who took shelter there.

In the semi-darkness of one vault he found a man in his mid-thirties, sitting on a shabby half-rotten sofa with his mongrel to his feet. “Hello Billy,” Sherlock greeted the man, crouching down to hold his hand for the dog to sniff. His fingers uncurling, he displayed a treat for the man’s friend.

“Long time no see,” mumbled the haggard Beta.

The last time he had seen Bill Wiggins was the day he had shot Magnussen. Sherlock scratched the young dog between the ears, and the mongrel of a shepherd dog and a Rottweiler rolled on to its back, revealing his soft tummy for the fond hand of his new friend. A gentle smile curled around the detective’s lips; a rare sight as Billy observed.

“What can I do for you?” The man with the distinct singsong in his voice stood up from the old threadbare sofa which served him as a bed.

Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his Belstaff, producing a slip of paper and tossed it toward Billy who unfolded it. Inside, he found fifty quid which the lanky man put into his trouser pocket without looking up. Sherlock didn’t hold the gesture against him because showing money openly in this place could be dangerous. “I need to find a young woman, nineteen years old, homeless. Her name’s Charlotte, but she might go with Charlie.”

“Could be anybody,” Billy shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock leant closer against his repugnance of the pungent smell of a man who didn’t have a shower for at least seven days. Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock lowered his voice to a whisper, “She’s an Omega.”

Billy’s eyes widened at the assertion. “Thought they were all dead.”

“Certainly you’ve read the newspapers?” Sherlock’s eyes lit on several articles stuck beneath Billy’s stained pillow.

The homeless man absorbed knowledge in abundance, and he grunted his confirmation. “This’ for a case?”

Sherlock held his glacial stare. Maybe it was a mistake to ask Billy of all the people in his homeless network. He questioned too much. “Yes.”

The curt reply implied no further explanation by the detective, and Billy pursed his lips. Sherlock had always been a delightful diversion, but apparently he didn’t want to let him in. “This will take a couple of days.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth at the prospect of losing more time than necessary; he had barely four weeks left. “All right.” With that said he turned to leave.

“It’s funny, you know,” Billy contemplated emphatically, “Just yesterday friends told me that your doctor’s wife tried to find me.” Sherlock stopped midstride, blinking confused. “First I hear nothing from you in months, and then you all come looking for me.”

“Have you met her?” Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown of incomprehension.

“No, I wasn’t here.”

A subtle nod by the detective indicated his goodbye. “Find the woman quickly.”

***

John had a busy week and coming home from work didn’t make it easier for him. Sherlock’s brooding mood made his skin crawl. Agitated, the detective paced the living room back and forth, the tails of his blue dressing gown billowing with his long strides. Every now and then he stopped at the window, looking down and hoping to find Billy at the door to bring him finally the requested information.

“God,” he shouted disgruntled, “What’s so difficult about finding one single person?”

John rolled his eyes, putting the newspapers in his lap. With his friend’s restlessness radiating from his bad temper, he might as well stop trying to read the news. Instead he watched Sherlock’s elegant movements, almost like a dance, his hip swaying a bit as he turned around to pace back. Somehow, it was hypnotizing and amusing at the same time. “I don’t know. She’s an Omega, and she’s hiding herself half her live, I presume.”

“It’s been five days, John,” Sherlock complained clipped, pulling a face of annoyance as if John didn’t want to see the problem. With an audible exhale between a sigh and a grunt Sherlock took his violin, glowering at the instrument at first, contemplating if he could soothe his mood by playing. The delicate wood fitted perfectly between his chin and shoulder as he set the prepared bow to play.

The tune filled the flat with long rhythmic notes. John closed his eyes, listening to the classic composition and hoping it would settle Sherlock’s agitation. But after a few minutes he realized his fallacy, the soft strings becoming scratchy and unmelodious as the detective looked out of the window, unnerved. With a heavy sigh John got up and fled for the kitchen hopefully to tune out the random notes. Preparing tea for them, he occupied himself to restrain himself from unwanted thoughts.

A throaty shout of irritation accompanied by one final scratch indicated the end of the lively play. From the corner of his eyes John saw his friend in a fierce movement as if he wanted to dash the violin against the wall. “No!” John raised his voice in admonition.

At this Sherlock stopped short, locking angry mercurial eyes with his friend. “Stop patronizing me, John,” he snapped.

“I’m not patronizing you,” John defensed himself, rather amused than miffed.

This fueled the conflict in the detective. “Yes, you do. You just don’t recognize it, but every time I’m in a bad mood you don’t take me serious.”

“That’s not true.” John huffed a perplexed laugh, his former amusement slowly fading and inflaming tension instead.

“Do you even realize the Alpha’s speaking in those cases?”

John opened his mouth to deny the implicit question, but then shut it again, weighing Sherlock’s words. Could he be right? Was he patronizing his friend because of John’s nature? In this case it didn’t matter whether Sherlock was an Omega or not, his friend spoke solely of an Alpha’s dominance. Of course this annoyed Sherlock. John took a deep breath to even his suddenly flustered heart. “I’m sorry,” an absent-minded frown crossed his face at the self-reflection. “I just didn’t want you to break your violin in the heat of the moment because I know you would self-loathe yourself afterwards.”

At the sheepish mumble of his friend Sherlock pouted half-heartily, “I’d never do any harm to my violin.” His fingers brushed over the strings, feeling the distinct texture in a loving gesture. “It belonged to my father.”

Before Sherlock confided his secret he had told John his father died of cancer, but now John put two and two together, deducing that Mr. Holmes was the family’s Omega. John knew that Sherlock lost his father at a young age, and that he had loved him – a rare trait in the Holmes’ family. Probably Mycroft brought it all on his younger brother, pointing out that caring didn’t help his father in the end, but finding a cure for the disease. John dropped his eyes to the boiling kettle, a sudden gush of sadness flooding through his veins. His friend told him once about his incapability of finding a solution for his father. Self-loathing inhabited a burning sentiment, and John never presumed to find it within Sherlock Holmes.

Sighing his resignation, John poured hot water into their mugs, the tea eggs floating to the rim as Sherlock coaxed tender timbres from his violin. John looked up, surprised at the sudden change of mood. His chin rested relaxed on the black smooth wood, his pale blue eyes watching from under his lashes, locking with John’s. All the former tension had faded from his shoulders as the melody slipped easily off the cuff. But the staring confused John. _What is that supposed to mean?_ He sensed his pulse elevating, his eyes widening in shock as comprehension struck him. “Your father died of Morbus, didn’t he?” Sherlock hummed his bitter confirmation, never stopping his play. “Did they share a bond?”

“Yes.”

“A mutual bond?”

“Yes.”

John’s heart skipped a beat at the horrifying agony of the loss for Mrs. Holmes. When they had visited her last Christmas he became acquainted with her, astonished at how caring Sherlock’s mummy was.

His friend paused the play for a second, explaining, “Thirty percent, John.” Then he resumed the tune as if nothing had happened.

The Alpha’s lips formed a silent _Oh_ in understanding. Thirty percent of the mutually bonded Alphas survived the torture of loss in the aftermath of their Omega’s death. After a few minutes he removed the tea eggs to put them into the sink and carried the mugs to the coffee table, flopping onto the sofa and listening to the calm composition.

“Do you have a backup plan?” The question slipped from his lips, causing him to immediately scolding himself. _In case your plan purchasing suppressant won’t work_. John added the vague chance of a failure in his mind, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t sense the meaning behind his blunt question.

His friend’s eyes sparkled for a second dangerously, but then he closed them, turning away to the window, avoiding John’s stare and his query. Neither of them spoke for a while, only the tender music evoked by horsehair on strings filled the flat when all of a sudden the doorbell announced a visitor.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the pupils constricted to the size of a pinhead at the abrupt flood of light. “Finally,” his voice got a hopeful edge. Downstairs stood Bill Wiggins.

With profuse care he put the violin and the bow back into the case, ignoring John’s curious glances. Apparently, the Beta had no intention to come up, so Sherlock headed down the stairs with another fifty quid in his hand.

Ever since John had met Bill Wiggins last year, he had nurtured an inordinate amount of distrust for the man. It probably was ascribable to the fact that Billy had helped Sherlock in the drug den. One might say they started off on the wrong foot. Billy avoided John since then, afraid of another sprain.

After pursing his lips in disapproval at the involvement of the homeless Beta, John got up, walking to the window. The curtains made him invisible as he looked down, observing both men changing information as well as fifty quid. _So Billy was successful_. John’s eyes shone with frustration that he hadn’t found the solution, but the man who was almost as clever as Sherlock.

With a final nod they bid goodbye, and John heard Sherlock’s approaching footsteps on the creaking floorboard of the fifteenth step. When Sherlock appeared at the door, his former frown gone to make place for a delighted smirk, John looked askance at his friend. “Did he find her?”

The question ignored, Sherlock’s smirk faded while he looked John up and down with a scrutinizing glare. Narrowing his eyes, he asked a counter question instead, “You do have more casual clothing, don’t you?”

John looked down at his jumper and jeans, knitting his brows in lack of understanding, “What?”

“We’re going into battle, John.” Sherlock shrugged out of his black jacket, “We need to don the right armor.”

“What battle?” Annoyance crept up his spine at his friend’s failure to explain his plan. John knew Sherlock liked it, speaking in riddles and leaking out the pieces until the puzzle was solved. Normally, Sherlock was the puzzle solver, but it seemed with John he relished the game as a small smile made his eyes laugh with mischief.

 

“We’re going out tonight.” Already heading to the bathroom, he raised his voice a bit, “Billy found Charlie and learnt that she’s selling her stuff on Saturday nights at a Beta club near Leicester Square. I’m going to feign interest in her drugs to get at her and ask about suppressants. That’s why we’re going incognito.” He shot John a last questioning look before heading for the shower, “You do have some sort of tee shirts, don’t you?”

Dumbfounded, John looked down at his small checkered button-down shirt, “Sure, I…” His voice grew tense as he stuttered, “But a club? I’ve not been in a club in twenty years, Sherlock.” He licked his lips, “I don’t think I fit into a club.” _I’m a bit too old for this sort of establishment_.

“Sure you do.” Sherlock’s frown returned with a hint of concern. His best friend always behaved self-conscious, comfortable in his skin, “You also frequent pubs and bars.”

“Yeah,” John rubbed his neck sheepishly, “Pubs with friends, and bars with dates.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened even as two fine lines over the bridge of his nose crinkled. _Friends and dates?_ John had taken him along to both places. Shaking his head, he dissipated the notion. “You do fit into a club,” he stressed, “You just need to find the right armor.” With that said he finally disappeared into the private sanctuary of the bathroom. Sometimes his friend could be so confusing.

Left in the living room, John heaved a sigh. Of course Sherlock didn’t understand the connotation. Clubs were meant for people who liked to dance, who enjoyed the physical contact amidst the density of too many people. Due to the loud music, it bordered to the absurdity of not being able to talk to each other rather than shouting into someone’s ear which was in this case Sherlock’s. A shiver ran down his spine, pooling in his lower abdomen.

In his bedroom he rummaged through his sparsely stocked wardrobe. The best piece of what Sherlock had implied was his long-sleeved dark gray polo shirt with a white button border and a fancy applicator on the left chest.

_Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models_. The phrase popped into his mind. Sherlock had expressed his lack of understanding in beauty during his wedding, affronting the bridesmaids by his choice of words. The memory made John snicker. _Sure you do_. Sherlock’s blunt answer betrayed his absolute honesty. He didn’t see John’s point, nor did he catch the meaning. For Sherlock, John fitted. The deduction held a tight grip on his chest, his mind exploring if Sherlock saw every friend in that position, or if he made an exception for John.

He sat down at the edge of his bed, clutching the polo shirt in his hand. Again, the thought occurred to John that Victor might fit more into the scene of a club, and at the same time he shook his head in disbelief. _Sherlock hasn’t asked Victor to come along_. The small whisper in the back of his mind tried to persuade him. He looked at his alarm clock which showed him in large black digits that he had still time. So he decided for a nap. The night would get long.

***

“John!” The emphatic baritone boomed from downstairs, invading his sleep as he woke up with a start. He looked to the alarm clock for the time: half past nine o’clock.

_Shit!_

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, peeling off his button-down to slip on his polo-shirt. His dark blue denim jeans matched the polo, and from under his bed he pulled out a pair of light brown leather shoes with white laces. All in all, his clothing appeared smart casually, hopefully enough for Sherlock, and all of a sudden John got the feeling of going on a date rather than on a chase.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he hurried downstairs, Sherlock already waiting for him at the staircase, quirking an eyebrow in disapproval. Folding his own brows at the clothes of the detective, he said, “Not much of a change.” John pointed his chin toward his friend, who wore his usual Belstaff with a black suit jacket beneath. The only clothing he had changed involved his suit trousers into black skinny jeans with fitting black leather boots up to his ankles.

Sherlock ignored the skit, “I called a taxi. It’s already waiting.”

The club was Beta-exclusive; a label designed for clubs that didn’t want to have trouble with sometimes hormone-driven aggressive Alphas. In the cab Sherlock handed John a small tube. “What’s this?”

Sherlock shot the cabbie a cautious look and lowered his voice, “Beta scent. Spread the creme on your exposed skin – face, neck and hands. Most of the bouncers are Alphas, so they might smell us.”

Twenty minutes later the cab arrived at the club with two Betas, people waiting outside in a line. The club wasn’t too posh, containing three floors; from the ground level to the basement and upstairs to the first floor, playing several styles of music.

Sherlock paid the driver with a generous tip due to the short ride. After climbing out of the black car, the detective didn’t condescend to wait at the end of the line and headed straight for the entrance. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,” he announced to the bouncer, who nodded his agreement and let them in much to the dismay of the waiting crowd.

A narrow corridor with dark blue wallpapers led them to the checkroom, the bass of the still attenuated music already drumming in their ears. “Don’t tell me the owner owes you something?” John chuckled at the easy admission.

“She does,” explained Sherlock with a mischievous grin, shrugging out of his Belstaff while John followed suit with his jacket, draping it over the counter for the attendant. “Helped her when the club should have closed after a drug bust.” Sometimes Sherlock was a bit predictable and John grinned at his correct deduction, leaning casually with his hip at the edge of the counter and watching people as they waited for their turn.

To John’s surprise Sherlock also shrugged out of his suit jacket, revealing that he indeed had changed. His button-down shirt had vanished for a tight-fitting black Henley shirt. John caught himself staring at his friend, trying to sort his memories if he had ever seen him in other clothing besides in pajamas covered with a dressing gown or his usual button-down shirts with his two-piece black suit.

Actually, the Henley wasn’t so different from his button-downs, yet it looked more casual with its three buttons open, displaying the sharp contrast between the black fabric and Sherlock’s alabaster skin beneath the vee of the shirt. Luckily the checkroom attendant occupied his friend by passing a tag with a number in exchange for their coats and jackets that he couldn’t see John staring at him open-mouthed, his eyes roaming to Sherlock’s narrow hips. The Henley rippled over his hipbones, revealing a small stripe of creamy skin between shirt and the waistband of his jeans. John sniffed flustered, suddenly afraid the Beta scent wouldn’t work. But as irritating as it was the scent filled his nose, calming him again.

They strode along another dark corridor, passing the restrooms to their right. The music got louder with each step, and as they entered the bolstered double door the beat filled their ears, throbbing at their eardrums. The crowded room left barely space for privacy. Sherlock surveyed the place with practiced eyes, and after a while he nudged at John’s shoulder, implying that his friend should follow him.

They circled the room and went for a tour, scanning the floors, memorizing every little detail in case they needed it later. The ground level contained a vast dance floor, a bar and an adjacent room for a lounge where it was considerably less noisy. Electronic dance music was reserved for the whole basement, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose as they checked the area for Charlie. The young woman seemed not to have arrived yet, as they also looked for the first floor where the deejay had decided for a mix of R’n’B and Hip Hop.

After their round tour they shuffled back to the ground level, John proposing to get them something from the bar. “What do you want to drink?” He leant closer, shouting into Sherlock’s ear.

“Just water,” Sherlock replied, startled at the sudden hot breath tickling at his ear. John rolled his eyes and went to fetch them drinks while Sherlock found two vacant armchairs around a table in the lounge. He fished his mobile out of his jeans pocket and flopped into one armchair, the leather creaking at the effort. Just to refresh his memory he scrolled through the pages of pictures. Billy had sent him a message with a photo of Charlie, a rather boyish young Omega with cropped brown hair and narrow brown eyes. According to the picture, she seemed to be small which would make it difficult to detect her in the crowd.

Suddenly a hand with a tumbler appeared in front of Sherlock’s face. He looked up to find John smirking. His eyes wandered back to the golden liquid in the tumbler. _No water_. Sherlock gestured a question, not bothering to talk over the loud music, but John ignored him as he drew the second armchair closer next to his friend.

“They didn’t have water,” he chuckled, “Just soft drinks, so I decided even though you’re somewhat on a case you also might have a little fun, or at least feign the fun. Remember: incognito.”

Sherlock locked sharp eyes with John, but took the tumbler at last. “A Sazerac?” He sniffed cautiously at the mix of whiskey and sugar syrup with a shot of Peychaud’s Bitters.

Nodding his confirmation, John looked down at the beer bottle in his left hand. “I know that you don’t like beer.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile, triumphant about his correct deduction.

Sherlock sipped his drink, humming his agreement. Sometimes John indeed surprised him, and he watched him from the corner of his eyes. His friend sucked the beer from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as the cool liquid washed down his throat. Mesmerized, Sherlock followed the trail to John’s hollow between his collarbones, recognizing that his friend usually wore his shirts buttoned up to his throat. He could even see the faint tan line, still imprinted in his skin after such a long time absent of the gleaming sun of Afghanistan. The only part that disturbed Sherlock’s perception of John in that moment was the irritating Beta fragrance. Annoyed, he tore his eyes off his friend, looking at the honey colored Sazerac to take another timid sip. The whiskey burned in his throat, pooling in hot waves in his stomach to gradually unclench a tight knot. Sherlock had been aware of the effect he had on John when he had asked him to go out with him tonight. He could sense the antagonism of tension and joy. Although there was a good reason to be here, Sherlock felt excited the whole evening in anticipation.

A sudden prod at his arm ripped Sherlock from his contemplation as John leant once again close, “We’ve been sized up.” Sherlock felt the huff of laughter against his ear, rippling his skin in the neck. John pointed his chin much too noticeably toward two women across the room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the indelicacy of his friend as he turned his face to John, their noses almost brushing. “I’m not here for a date,” he drawled, smelling the malty taste of John’s beer and locking dilating pupils with his friend.

John looked startled at the sudden closeness, his eyes sweeping over Sherlock’s features as he brought a few inches between them. “Actually you are.”

_Was that a tease? Or did he refer to Charlie?_ He sipped deliberately at his cocktail, conscious about John’s eyes following his lips. _That bloody Beta scent_. Without John’s typical Alpha scent he couldn’t make out the meaning of his friend’s words as he couldn’t perceive the shift in his natural fragrance. On top of this annoying dilemma the two women drew closer to them. With a jerk he stood up, startling John in his observations. He took the bottle from his friend’s hand and placed it onto the table where he also left his almost empty tumbler. “This is an awful place to observe the entrance. If Charlie comes in we won’t see her.” His finger pointed at a big square-shaped post, obscuring the view to the double door. “Let’s go over there.”

John followed the path of his index finger, brows shooting up in surprise, “But that’s the dance floor.”

Feigning indifference to mask his nervousness of asking John, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. He liked dancing, and he never got the chance except behind closed curtains in 221B when he taught John how to waltz. “There’s a small niche at the corner of the room from where we have a far better view to the entrance.”

“But I don’t know how to dance,” John stuttered embarrassed. He should add _with a man_ , and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the notion. Usually John’s concern about his sexuality became apparent because he had witnessed Harry’s obstacles on several occasions. But this was a Beta club, and Betas experienced no restrictions on prejudices and discrimination due to their low fertility. And right now, he was a Beta.

“Basically, with this sort of dance, it’s just shifting your weight from one leg to the other, swaying your hips while doing so.” At the blunt explanation John snorted a laugh, and the tension faded into a fit of a giggle.

“Hi,” they heard a chirping voice from behind. The two women had found their targets in the end.

While John, with his polite manners, wanted to turn around to greet back, Sherlock had already taken his hand, dragging him toward the dance floor and ignoring the women with a cold shoulder.

As they reentered the main room the music once again drummed in their ears, an easy rhythm making the crowd dance according to the melody. Sherlock’s long fingers had curled determinedly around John’s hand, afraid that those harpies might wrestle John from him. The beat of the music reverberated by the strong bass found its way through their ears until it hit their chests – a throbbing rhythm, equal to their heart beats. The movement came easily as the people around them set the pace; John just had to watch and mimic.

Sherlock turned around as they met the dance floor. With a smirk he let go of John’s hand, starting to walk backward while rolling his hips deftly in the rhythm, dragging John with him with just his eyes. Like in trance John followed him – as he always did; only this time the battleground entailed a significant difference. Those blown wide eyes with just an eclipse of pale blue appeared like gravity, and John couldn’t avert his fascinated gaze. Sherlock’s movements could always be best ascribed with elegant and swift. He knew how to move, to manipulate people with flourish gestures, with tensing muscles which would provoke an unwanted reaction to reveal their inner secrets.

John’s eyes swept over the slender body, contemplating if his friend was manipulating him right now. The crowd on the dance floor got thicker, and people jostled against him standing there. He had no other chance than to move, imitating Sherlock’s flow, and John’s eyes glued to his narrow hips rocking to the music. The urge to reach out and trail the hem of Sherlock’s Henley overwhelmed him, each motion revealing the thin stripe of exposed skin.

Sherlock watched his friend with sultry eyes, chewing his bottom lip. In his mind always remained a tiny shimmer of hope; that all his problems would vanish into thin air. Usually his rational mind revoked those useless emotions, but John had this unbroken faith in his friend. A faith that he would solve any puzzle, even his own. A faith as dangerously contagious to reach for John’s hand and to put it on the small of his back, dragging him closer and looking into his wistful eyes. He needed no bond to sense the turmoil in his friend as a hazy glance shot up, not knowing what was allowed and what wasn’t. In a tacit respond Sherlock left his hand hover over John’s, afraid he might withdraw it, flinching. A hesitant right hand wandered to John’s left hip, frisking the hard ridge of his leather belt beneath the soft fabric of his polo shirt. It was the perfect embrace to guide him in the rhythm of the music. But somehow the music had become irrelevant as the notes faded out of his mind, no more than the throbbing rhythm in his chest remained, dictating him how to move his long legs, how to roll his hips, how to lean into the warm touch of John.

From behind and from the sides people moved together, bumping into John, pressing him into the rare caress of his friend, their bodies almost touching in the swaying motion of their dance. Tiny beads of sweat appeared at his forehead as the heat and humidity increased amidst the crowd. Beneath his fingers John felt the damp warmth of Sherlock’s sweat-slicked shirt as his muscles moved under the thin layer of fabric and skin. He splayed his fingers, adding a slight pressure to hold his friend close and to sense the rhythm reverberating in his body. The touch seemed to be welcomed as Sherlock didn’t intervene, his hand wandering up John’s arm to his shoulder. A slight tug indicated that Sherlock wanted to direct him toward the small niche across the dance floor. He followed with reluctance, their movements starting to synchronize at the beat echoing in their chests. The music forgotten and irrelevant, John suddenly wanted to stay on the dance floor, relishing the simultaneous swaying in a mutual heartbeat. The niche connoted the end of the electrifying touch on Sherlock.

Another bump closed the little gap between them, and John’s vision blurred as the world’s focus narrowed down to the intriguing friction of their bodies. But how could he break free from that enticing temptation? He didn't dare to look up, to see those piercing ice blue eyes telling him to keep countenance. Instead, his other hand grasped Sherlock’s hip, the touch portraying a mental image as John palpated the crest of his friend’s sharp hipbone. John held him close, not wanting to dissolve into the cold loneliness again. His fingers began to trace the coarse texture of the seam at the Henley’s hem like a violin’s string, his subconscious mind remembering the thin stripe of exposed skin. _Damn that Beta scent!_ He scowled mentally. Used to Sherlock’s fake Alpha fragrance, confusion rose within him as he realized that he neither wanted the Alpha nor the Beta scent – he wanted Sherlock.

They had almost reached the end of the dance floor as the shock of this awareness made him finally look up to meet dark eyes. Sherlock’s lips parted, sucked in the humid air, already tasting John’s fragrance on his tongue. A glow engulfed them as the friction warmed their bodies in unison, pressing even tighter against each other in the mutual dance. Fabric rippled and hot flesh met alabaster skin, sending electrifying impulses into their lower abdomen. Sherlock needn’t the bond to know that John was aroused. His friend’s hand had slipped beneath the fabric of his Henley, stroking the soft flank with his thumb as he held him close while everything in Sherlock curled into sweet passion. John’s other hand trailed the small notches of Sherlock’s spine upwards until his hand cupped the sensitive neck of his friend. John perceived goose bumps rippling exposed skin, leaving an alluring tingle beneath his fingers. A small smile dared to tug at the corner of John’s mouth, locking eyes with Sherlock, asking if the touch was consensual.

The response came at once as Sherlock lowered his head, closing the gap between their faces, their lips meeting in a tentative brush. It was intoxicating and unstoppable; the kiss chaste and shy at first as he sensed John’s withholding strength. Sherlock closed his mouth around John’s bottom lip, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin as he sucked deliberately. If not for the loud music still throbbing in their chests, he would have heard John’s deep-throated groan. Encouraged by his friend’s responsive gestures, Sherlock let his hand roam from John’s shoulder, trailing the protruding ridge of his collar bones up to his throat, the humming moan reverberating in his Adam’s apple beneath his fingers. For a moment he enjoyed the sensation of a willing Alpha under his touch as he licked over cautious bites.

John’s eyes had rolled back at the overwhelming sensation of Sherlock’s perfectly shaped lips on him. Unconsciously, he increased the pressure at his friend’s neck, parting his lips in invitation. He tilted his head to grant better access for Sherlock as his friend probed his tongue past John’s lips. In this moment where time stopped into an eternity of sensation Sazerac kissed beer in an obscene yet beautiful dance, their tongues melting with each other. Soft strokes stole the taste of the drink of the other. John endeavored to keep his control, his body mingling in an oversensitive dance of switching light, recurring beats of an unknown music and Sherlock’s body rocking against him, making his nerves send thrilling pulses through him. Self-restraint kept the kiss exploratory, afraid Sherlock might break away every second, yet his hand grew impatient, his fingers raking into that unruly mob of curls, dampened with sweat. But Sherlock had no intention to step back. On the contrary, he followed every move John set, pressing his skull into the touch while his tongue pushed even deeper, brushing and licking while ragged breaths mingled. As John realized that Sherlock wanted this his other hand slipped beneath the Henley, betraying his cautious façade which crumbled to confess his hunger. Fingers trailed the distinct plasticity of Sherlock’s flanks to the hard planes of his lower abdomen, feeling smooth skin move over firm muscles in contrast to a thin line of sparse hair running below his navel.

All the while Sherlock never stopped to drag John into the niche, his own hand pressed with splayed fingers against John’s chest not so sure if he should shove gently to break the kiss or to pull him even closer. The sudden bump against the wall startled him for a second as he gasped for breath, his chest heaving. John, urgent in his need now, took this as a chance to trail kisses, licks and tiny bites along his jawline. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed again, relishing the sensation of the delirious touches and his bond. It was breathtaking, and soon he panted heavily, his hands at John’s hips yanking him even closer while still rolling his hips to the hypnotizing rhythm of the music. The jeans, he recognized, got uncomfortably tight in the effort.

John felt the hard cock against his own erection as he sucked below the sensitive spot of Sherlock’s earlobe. Although he couldn’t hear his friend’s moans, he sensed the rumbling echo beneath his lips and fingertips of his upwards wandering hand.

“John,” faintly John recognized a different texture of the vibration.

_No groan. A word?_ But John ignored the notion, sucking the earlobe into his mouth, reaping another moan. His tongue licked the path of a sweat bead down, tasting a mix of salty skin and the sour remnants of the Beta creme. He closed his mouth over the collarbone, grazing his teeth in a careful caress along the distinct line.

“John, please.”

_Another word, only longer this time_. John hummed, pleased with his kisses, making Sherlock blush with arousal. The pink shade intensified in his face, a beautiful contradiction to the detective’s otherwise cool pallor. But as he looked into those pale blue eyes he retreated a fraction. The cloudy look had faded, and the sharpness had returned, a mild scowl directed at John for not responding when he had addressed him in the first instance. John realized that it was over, and he brought space between them, cringing at the loss of the touch. Sherlock’s eyes were pinned to the double door of the entrance, John following his attention. Just a minute earlier the young woman they came for had entered the club.

The dealer was indeed short, her appearance rather mousey. _Neat_. Sherlock acknowledged the disguise of the other Omega. Her Pixie cut let brown strands of hair stand upright, some of her hair-end dyed with a fading dark violet while her brown deer-like eyes scanned the room for possible clients and plain-clothes constables. Her boyish features were underlined by her casual wear of light blue jeans with a simple green wide shirt and sneakers. _She must grease the bouncer’s palm_.

Sherlock straightened his back, brushing creases out of his Henley as he set the hem back over his trousers’ waistband. _Back into battle_ , John noticed, rolling his shoulders as tension crept up his spine. His friend walked along the black wall, drawing closer to the entrance. This time he glowered at people who jostled against him, lifting his elbows to keep them at bay.

Charlie stood at the bar. _Clearly not for a drink_. Sherlock smirked as he smelled the fake Beta scent. A faint glimmer of hope flickered in his chest at the young woman, who might be of help. Approaching from behind he lifted a hand to tap on her shoulder. She turned around with a jerk, locking narrowed eyes with Sherlock. A questioning frown let his brows fold together. _She knows_.

Her eyes widened in shock, searching for a way to get out of here as all of a sudden a tall woman bumped ungracefully into the detective pouring her drink over half of his chest. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she slurred, her tongue heavy with alcohol. At once John shoved himself protectively between the woman and Sherlock.

Within the short distraction Charlie used the chance to make off into the crowd. Irritated Sherlock’s eyes chased the throng. _Too many_. The young woman’s rather smallish structure helped her to submerge in the mass of people, but not her green shirt: Sherlock detected her as she shoved herself through a knot of people who blocked the way to the lounge. _Shit!_

The tall woman fumbled at John’s shoulder, still apologizing as Sherlock tugged at his arm, indicating for him to follow. He skimmed off the woman’s slender fingers, shouting, “It’s all right.” Startled by a sudden awareness in the eyes of the drunken woman, he turned to follow Sherlock through the crowd while her sharp glare pierced into him. Ignoring his confusion, he elbowed his way through the people, cursing under his breath that they were chasing a stranger without his gun. Due to the short polo shirt he couldn’t hide his Sig beneath his waistband at the small of his back. Instead, he was forced to leave it in the pocket of his jacket at the checkroom. In the lounge he caught up with Sherlock, who scanned the room for a second after he had lost sight of the green shirt.

Almost too late they spotted her, fiddling at the door of an emergency exit. _No_. With rough vigor both of them shoved and kicked people aside to reach the young woman before she would vanish into the darkness of the night.

When they arrived at the emergency exit the door had already slammed shut again. Sherlock yanked at the heavy door with all his might, the cool winter wind biting his face at once, his head getting clear after the hot and humid air of the club. The exit led them into a dark alleyway, each side bounded by red brick walls. While their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they tried to make out any movements, but the shadows seemed to have swallowed Charlie.

Without waiting for John, Sherlock sprinted through the narrow alley which led him to another short passageway ending into a backyard with several bins. He whirled around without a sign of the young woman. In a mix a fear and despair he even checked the bins, yet the woman had vanished without a trace. In his chest his heart hammered from the adrenaline. Slowly he realized that his efforts remained futile, and anger crept in his mind, grasping any string of rationality. _How could I’ve been so stupid?_ The emotion was a sour reflection of his own failure, making him loose every sense of self-control as John appeared behind him.

“She’s gone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pressed the word through gritted teeth.

“Damn!” At this Sherlock whirled around once again, boring fiery eyes into John who flinched visibly. John knew what this meant. His friend was chastising himself for indulging into distraction, for neglecting the Work. A pang of guilt shot through John because Sherlock’s glare betrayed the accusation that John had caused this aberration. “Listen, Sherlock,” he stuttered not finding the right words, “I’m sorry. We’ll find another way.”

“ _We_?” The hiss made John shudder, catching the fury at the word. Yet he saw that the storm behind his friend’s expression hid a mask of agony. His anger didn’t just address John, but also Sherlock himself for tolerating the diversion. “For God’s sake, John, you’ve just licked the Beta scent literally from my throat. She recognized what I am and got leery.”

John’s eyes widened at the realization, “I…”

But Sherlock raised a dismissive hand, stopping another apology, “There’ll be no _we_ , John.” He needed to make that clear as pain seeped through his body, mixing with his rage. “You asked me if I have a backup plan.” Towering in front of his friend, Sherlock searched for something in John’s steel blue eyes. Forgiveness? “Well, let me put it straight: you’re not part of it.” As the seconds ticked by Sherlock swallowed, bracing himself for the truth, “It’ll be Victor.”

Without another word, he rounded John and walked back toward the club with long strides, leaving his friend behind in the shadows of an overcast night sky.

_Pain_. If pain would have a color it would be red. Red like the pavement where Sherlock’s head had hit the ground after jumping from St. Bart’s rooftop. Right now, red spread relentlessly through John’s veins in an uncontrollable pulse, making his fingers tickle as they got cold, the receding warmth protecting the center of his body – vasoconstriction. _Pain_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr.   
> [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	9. Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes.
> 
> And thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

During the following days they barely met, even though they shared a flat. After the escalation in the dark alleyway, Sherlock departed alone without further discussions. The next two days John heard him leave the flat in the morning, still lying in the sanctuary of his warm bed before he needed to head for the surgery. Sherlock didn’t return until late in the evening. Without doubt, his friend tried to find the other Omega in the cobweb of London’s streets and underground.

_Or would he meet with Victor?_ A silent, yet persistent voice whispered in his ear. On his day off, John sprawled out on the sofa, reading a book. But the letters blurred, and his eyes became unfocused. Since their last conversation, John could neither concentrate on the telly nor a book as his lethargic mind always reverted back to Sherlock’s reasoning. It left John emotionally wrung out, utterly naked in the face of a gruesome truth he had disregarded, especially after their kiss in the club. His stomach clenched into a tight knot as he remembered that blissful moment. Since a very long time he had felt happiness, attaining the end of an eternal journey.

Resigned, John put the book onto the small coffee table. The heels of his hands pressed into his sockets, trying to ease the throbbing pain behind his eyes. Since he had left the club a dull headache accompanied his days, developing hypersensitivity to light and colors. If he stared long enough onto the telly the colors got brighter and sharper until it was unbearable to watch anymore. The same happened when he listened to music. Last night John awoke to Sherlock’s violin. He didn’t recognize the measured tune, but behind closed eyelids a pulsing white spot started to mingle with a soft rose and olive green. _Whatever that meant?_

It all began with Sherlock’s tantrum in a red blaze of chagrin. _Red?_ John even neglected to perceive that his friend’s natural Omega scent had surfaced. Shaking his head in disbelief, he refused to admit that his whole action depended on his Alpha nature, claiming an Omega. _No_. The Beta scent was still intact when they kissed. Even after licking the creme of Sherlock’s throat his reaction stayed sane, no hormone-driven Alpha instinct pressing his friend roughly against the wall. _No_. At Sherlock’s request John obeyed unaffected by the delirious scent. Over and over again he replayed the evening in front of his mind’s eye, hoping to find the mistake he had committed. With Sherlock initiating the dance and the kiss, he permitted John the mesmerizing closeness, showing that he wanted this. Their actions were consensual, John concluded, until the moment Sherlock’s fake scent dissolved under John’s tongue, and they broke loose to chase after Charlie. His friend’s behavior was completely irrational, something John would have expected of himself when the Omega scent hit his olfactory sense. Yet it didn’t affect him – at least not too much. Maybe because he was responding to his friend’s shifting scent while resentment about his failure flooded through him? _Red?_

The more he pondered about it the less he understood. And Sherlock avoiding him didn’t make it better. He craved for an exchange of what had happened. They needed to talk about it. How would 221B turn out to be without them talking to each other? It left him in utter confusion, wrapping his arms around himself, forlorn and shamed at the exposure of his feelings, hurt and embittered at the loss of a promise which appeared to be another lie.

As distraught as he was he must accept one thing – Sherlock’s decision. He made his position clear of not wanting a relationship with his flatmate, but John also refused to believe that his friend wanted a relationship with Victor Trevor. With that in his mind he chose to help his friend, keeping to the sidelines.

So he dropped by Dr. Gale’s surgery the next day after his work. He still disliked the idea of asking a potential suspect in a private matter, but he wanted to amend his earlier mistakes, hoping that she would at least let him borrow her book about Omega’s anatomy and biochemistry.

“Dr. Watson,” she greeted him, amazed. He shook her offered hand as he noticed from the corner of his eyes waiting patients in the anteroom.

“Can you spare a few minutes?” With wary attention he lowered his voice, and the gynecologist understood.

“Sure,” she guided him into her office, implying for John to take a seat. “Any luck with Charlotte?”

John frowned and shook his head at the sudden question. The last time they had visited Dr. Gale he recognized that the woman was quite straightforward; a trait he often witnessed with Sherlock. She feigned no ignorance by casual remarks or questions. Knowing very well why John showed up, she forthwith got to the point.

“We met her briefly, but she ran away before we could ask her anything.” John sighed and steeled his eyes to hold contact with those acute green of the other doctor. Usually, no one intimidated him easily, but this woman made him feel degraded; perhaps because she read him in less than three minutes, unveiling his act the last time. “Did she show up here?”

A small smile curled around her lips, “Dr. Watson, I honor my medical confidentiality –,” and with a slight hint of amusement she followed John’s expression brittle into disappointment, “– but no. She hasn’t paid me a visit since four months.”

John nodded, his brows pleated, “If she’ll show up could you please tell her to contact Sherlock or me?” He shoved his card over the desk.

“Of course,” she pursed her lips, considering John for a moment who seemed reluctant to ask any further questions or leave her office. “Listen, Dr. Watson,” she folded her hands onto the desk, leaning closer, “I am really sorry about your friend. He’s not the only Omega coming to me with the request for contraceptives, and every time I have to explain that I can’t help that way. Some of them break under the pressure, some will completely vanish and hide away, and some…” she trailed off with the thought, her eyes suddenly snapping to John’s, “Claim him. Problem solved.”

“What?” John asked appalled at the suggestion.

“He’s not averse. I’ve seen it.”

“He’s not an object to claim,” incredulity seeped through John, yet a vague tickle made his stomach aflutter with excitement, and he hated his body beguiling his mind. “He’s my friend who’s desperate to decide his own fate.”

They stared at each other for a moment until Dr. Gale’s sharp intake of breath broke the silence, “Very well. It’s up to you.” She sighed and rummaged through the drawer of her desk, producing a stack of loose papers. “Those are his requested research results.”

John’s frown deepened, “What research results?”

“Mine,” Dr. Gale shoved the stack toward John, “Mr. Holmes asked me if I could copy my research documents about Morbus because he wants to study and correlate them with his own research.”

“You’re working together to invent a vaccine?” John’s brows shot up. All the time, he had assumed that his friend tried desperately to find a possibility to procure suppressants.

“Apparently, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I thought you came to pick it up.”

“No, we haven’t often met recently,” John mumbled his sheepish response.

“Mr. Holmes is an extraordinary chemist who might be of help for me. Since fifteen years I’m working on a vaccine against Morbus, hoping to detect the missing clue other scientists might have overlooked. But I have to confess that biochemistry or chemistry at all isn’t on my hobbyhorse.”

“Where exactly is the problem in creating a proper vaccine?” John asked before biting his tongue in annoyance that he had paid little attention to Omegas during his studies.

“We can’t produce antibodies, fighting the virus. The scientists sought an Omega who’s resistant to the virus, but failed up to the present day. Ergo: no antibodies. But the infected people need those antibodies to survive the disease, otherwise the Omega’s immune system would fight the virus which results in a drastic reduction of their pekosterone.”

“And that causes their death.” John concluded loudly, “Can’t they just counter the disease by dosing Omegas with synthesized pekosterone?”

“They tried to prevent the enormous decrease of pekosterone by synthesizing the hormone, but it’s not the same. It just prolongs the disease, and after almost two months they die nonetheless because synthesized pekosterone doesn’t have the same effect like the original.” The sharp features of Dr. Gale pulled a pinched face. “Without an immune Omega we’re losing the battle. The virus is simply too complex.” She shrugged defeated, “But maybe Mr. Holmes will find a solution.”

John exhaled a breath he had held. Mentally he was scolding himself for being so ignorant. A whole gender died in twenty years, and he as a bloody doctor hadn’t cared. Getting up from the uncomfortable swinger chair, he winced at the twinge in his leg as he took the stack of paper and put it into his brown worn leather briefcase. Before he turned to go his eyes lingered once again on the medical book about Omegas in the shelves behind Dr. Gale.

“Do you mind if I’d borrow that book?” His index finger pointed to the walnut shelf, and her eyes followed the angle.

“No, I don’t mind,” she stood on her tiptoes to retrieve it from the uppermost shelf, “Just bring it back when you’ve finished it.”

“Thanks,” John nodded once and left the office.

Due to his now heavier briefcase John decided for a taxi. To kill time he pulled the medical book into his lap, looking with wary attention at the cabbie. His eyes skimmed over the table of contents, flicking through the pages. With a clinical view his eyes darted over anatomical illustrations and scanned the lines for further explanations. Unconsciously, his mind filtered only the male Omega as worthwhile until he realized his personal attachment in this matter. All at once the illustrations became more vivid with John’s perception that he was looking at Sherlock’s anatomy. A slight blush crept up his face and painted his cheeks with a soft pink.

John had paid little attention on his best friend’s anatomy since he knew about his gender. Sherlock was Sherlock; it didn’t matter if Alpha, Beta or Omega. But looking at those precise illustrations depicting anatomy beyond layers of skin and firm muscles, John’s mouth produced suddenly too much saliva. Swallowing, he realized for the first time the other aspect of an Omega; that Sherlock could conceive children. A snort of laughter escaped his mouth. _Sherlock of all the people_. The pink shade reached his ears at the awareness, and John closed the book, his eyes unfocused to the outer world as he remembered his own loss of a child.

Half an hour later he arrived at 221B, surprised that his friend was at home, working on an experiment in his makeshift laboratory in the kitchen. His eyes glued to the white microscope, Sherlock didn’t bother to look up. _That’s a game two can play_. John thought irritated and rummaged his briefcase for Dr. Gale’s research results.

With a loud thud John tossed the stack onto the kitchen table, the laboratory glassware clinking, while he turned to head for the bathroom without a word. “How did you get this?” A frown in the detective’s face let a self-satisfied smile cross John’s lips at catching his friend off-guard.

“Deduce it.” John answered brusquely and left Sherlock with his logic alone as he entered the bathroom. All the days since the events of the club John felt confused, hurt, desperate and exposed of his intentions. By now Sherlock must know about John’s affection, and yet he had shoved him away, brutally, ignored him in the aftermath of a consensual kiss. And today where they met each other after half a week he neither greeted nor looked up from his experiment. Anger crept up his spine bit by bit, replacing the distress which forced him to curl up into a ball for several days.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed when John vanished into the bathroom. Of course his friend was cross with him. Since Saturday, Sherlock had shut John out of his investigations, too afraid of giving in to his tempting hope. Instead he had contacted Bill Wiggins once again, requesting his help to find other locations of Charlie; surely she must sell her drugs elsewhere, too. Further, he had asked Dr. Gale to provide him with her research results, proposing to work together. And next Sunday he would meet Victor again. They needed to sort things out.

At the prospect of Victor his insides convulsed. Their last meeting was surprisingly agreeable, Sherlock acknowledged. After such a long time they really had to talk a lot, and Sherlock had noticed that his friend’s amiable character had changed little. People might explain him as a perfect companion, and he was still in love with his former roommate.

With a sigh, Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing the chair a bit from the table, the legs scraping over the floor noisily. On the chair next to him stood John’s briefcase, still open from retrieving the papers, and he spied the medical book about Omegas.

When John returned from the bathroom he saw Sherlock with crossed legs, skimming through pages of Dr. Gale’s research. He walked to the counter, flicking the kettle to prepare tea. In his stubbornness he considered for a second to make tea just for himself, but let the idea drop as childish.

“So the reason you went to Dr. Gale was the book.”

“Hmm?” John turned from the kitchen unit around, glancing at his open briefcase.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “You wanted me to deduce you.”

A new wave of vexation flooded his body at Sherlock’s insolence. He gritted his teeth, “Yeah, I figured that I have to catch up on my education about Omegas.”

Flinching, Sherlock felt naked under the sudden interest in the rare gender. “Well, it’s safe to assume that it’s too late for it.” He chewed on his own spiteful disgust. “You can never catch up with my knowledge. Believe me, I have a lifetime-knowledge about Omegas, and I haven’t found any solution within the last twenty years.” Repulsed, he threw the papers back onto the stack, huffing an annoyed rumble of disappointment deep in his throat. “The book won’t help you, but it will satisfy your curiosity.”

John gaped at his friend for a second, appalled at the reproach, “As you so often pointed out in front of Lestrade or forensics, you value a second opinion, an outside eye because it inspires you. Maybe my knowledge isn’t sufficient, but you can’t expect me to fight that battle all your own.” _Stupid, stubborn idiot!_ A dull headache manifested behind his temples, throbbing painfully again and blurring his vision in a cold light blue; almost like the colors of Sherlock’s piercing eyes.

Hands braced onto the table, Sherlock shoved the chair away while he pushed his weight up. He glowered at John, snapping, “Fine. Go on. Read it. Feed your curiosity.”

“Sherlock,” John warned in disbelief of his friend’s ignorance, “I won’t read any glossy magazine, but a medical book I would read because I’m a bloody doctor. I won’t peek at any juicy pictures to get turned on. I want to understand how your biochemistry works in the hope of finding at least _something_ which might be of help.” He paused, swallowing his pressing fury. “I don’t understand. Why are you so piqued of me helping you? You can’t change the fact that you’re an Omega. Swallow your pride.”

“The fact?” Sherlock snorted derisively. “Now you sound like my Alpha brother.”

“Oh, come on,” John threw his hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “Why don’t you want me to read it?”

“Because I _hate_ it,” he hissed, his face contorted into a mask of agony, “Because I _hate_ being an Omega, and I don’t want you to look at me like that.”

And suddenly John sensed the meaning behind Sherlock’s words – shame. His anger ebbed, leaving the dull throbbing in his head, nausea creeping into his stomach. “But it’s what you are,” he began, hesitating over the next words, “And I think you’re perfect like this.” At this Sherlock averted his eyes, but John saw that the fight left his body. Tea all but forgotten, they kept a calming silence for a while. With each passing minute John became apprehensive of another truth. He cleared his voice, steeling himself for another rejection. “Please tell me, why am I here? You knew this would happen – running out of suppressants, yet you wanted me to move in again.” John shook his head as if he preferred to deny the truth of it himself, gripping the edge of the kitchen surface hard. “If I bother you I could easily move out again.”

“No,” the reply came at once and astonished both of them. In all honesty, Sherlock couldn’t fathom why he wanted John to move back in again a couple of weeks ago. Time and time again he made himself aware that a relationship with John was beyond questioning. His subconscious mind hadn’t played any tricks on him since their accident. All he did, he did very consciously – even the kiss. But reality had betrayed him, and sanity gained the upper hand.

“Then why?” He husked a whisper – John broken at the ambivalence of Sherlock.

“Because you’re my friend. And right now, I need a _friend_.”

***

After their quarrel things got more relaxed again at 221B. Sherlock read the five hundred pages of research within the next two days, correlating the results with his own and coming to the mutual agreement that without an immune Omega they lacked the much-needed antibodies – the keys to unlock the destruction of the original virus. What he would give to study the virus under his microscope.

On Sunday afternoon he arranged another meeting with Victor. John also went out for a drink with Lestrade, watching sport in a pub most certainly. Glad of the circumstance, Sherlock needn’t even tell John about his meeting. When they met the first time in St. Bart’s the detective had sensed the turmoil in John, a mix of irritation, jealousy and pain – the same mix he experienced every time Sherlock mentioned Victor. _Better for John not to know_.

Victor agreed on a café near the South Bank. He had a fondness for expensive and posh-looking establishments. Perhaps this ascribed to the evidence that his parents were rather snobbish. He arrived a little early and took a seat in one of the white soft leather armchairs around a small round table with a vitreous top, a cup of coffee already steaming in his hand. Sherlock looked at him through a window for a while without entering, his mouth dry at the imminent conversation they needed to conduct. Interestingly, Victor had changed little over the course of years. His face still portrayed those boyish features, only the fringe of his blond hair began to recede a bit. If not for the encounter with John in the hospital, Sherlock would have considered their first meeting pleasant. It took the detective less than five minutes to deduce that his old friend was still in love with him.

A twinge of regret flashed through him, but he shook it off. He liked Victor, always had. For an Alpha he wasn’t too possessive, and he adored Sherlock. The perfect match, Mycroft once pointed out. But Sherlock couldn’t help it, he didn’t love Victor. He bit the inside of his cheeks as he looked into those warm maroon eyes.

Sherlock entered the café at last, walking to the window front from where his friend watched the people in front of London’s thriving skyline. “Victor,” he greeted.

“Hi,” the other man stood up, offering the second armchair before taking Sherlock’s Belstaff to the coat rack. “Fancy a coffee?”

“Desperately in need of,” Sherlock replied, checking for Victor’s mood.

The blonde man huffed a laugh, waved for the waitress and ordered two coffees. “Two spoons of sugar and milk, right?”

Sherlock hummed his agreement, his eyes darting over the clothing of his friend. _Deliberately chosen, at least changed twice. Freshly shaved. Too much product in his hair. He’s nervous_.

“I have to admit I’m surprised that you wanted to meet me again so soon,” his maroon sparkled at the bold suggestion.

“Don’t be flattered,” Sherlock countered, wrinkling his nose playfully. This was a game, he considered, leaving small teases referring to other times.

Another grin curled around those boyish features while tiny crinkles played at his eyes, revealing his true age. “Then why are we here?”

“Can’t old friends meet every once in a while,” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, crossing his legs.

“We are not old _friends_ ,” the smile faded, and a stern expression crossed his face. It wasn’t meant to be rude. Victor wanted to point out that their connection involved more than just friendship; his stare heavy with the notion of an Alpha and an Omega.

At this Sherlock’s liveliness vanished, too. “I think we need to talk.”

“That sounds like we’re in a relationship?”

“It’s complicated,” Sherlock’s eyes became unfocused, looking into the nothingness of the world beyond the window. “I may need your help.”

Victor grew nervous at his friend’s choice of words. Absorbed in sudden memories, he brushed invisible creases of his light blue button-down shirt, casually worn above his black skin-tight jeans. He would never forget those words again in his whole life: _I may need your help_. A seventeen year old Sherlock embracing himself while he rocked back and forth in the effort to ease the symptoms of his first heat. Too tempting, Victor couldn’t resist as gravity pulled him into an unwanted fate. “May?” His voice became hoarse at the memories.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers interlacing in his laps that even white knuckles gave a sharp contrast to his creamy pallor. “Mycroft can’t procure contraceptives anymore as our family’s doctor passed away a few weeks ago. I’ve just two weeks left.” He shot Victor a look which implied more than the words divulged.

“And you want me as…” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose as comprehension dawned on him.

“Don’t make me say it,” Sherlock spoke clipped, his cheeks painted in a delicate pink.

The blonde man’s lips parted, inhaling sharply the much needed oxygen. “So,” he began, looking at Sherlock’s flexing hands, leaning closer as he lowered his voice, wary of the other guests, “Do I consider this a proposal or do you just want me to help you with your heats?”

Sherlock blinked confused. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “A partnership,” he replied, ruling out any connotation about a marriage.

They said nothing for a long while, their silence only broken by the waitress, bringing them their coffee. Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, resuming his unfocused stare to the Thames while Victor’s maroon eyes rested on his old friend. He knew that Sherlock didn’t want this; even a bond wasn’t necessary for this deduction but good observational skills. After a few minutes he tore his gaze off the Omega, occupying himself with the coffee. He liked his coffee just black with a spoon of sugar. Lost in his thoughts, he also helped two spoonful of sugar into Sherlock’s cup, stirring and adding a small slosh of milk.

As Victor prepared the coffee Sherlock ripped his gaze from the window, realizing what was happening: an Alpha’s behavior soothing an Omega by courteous manners. Victor’s subconscious mind commanded the physical shell of his body. Irritation flushed through Sherlock, not anger. He didn’t want to be the divine creature everybody saw in Omegas, he didn’t want to be spoiled. He wanted John shout at him about thumbs or eyes in the fridge, he wanted John to scold him for his leftovers in the microwave, he wanted John scowl at him for not cleaning up his experiments on the kitchen table.

Accepting the cup from Victor, Sherlock bit his tongue until pain prevented him to snap at the other man. Aware of Victor’s gaze, he brought the cup to his mouth, blowing at the steam before testing the hot fluid with caution. He literally felt his friend’s eyes resting on his lips, pupils dilating. It took all of Victor’s self-restraint not to lunge out and claim the promise that was conceded to him just a minute earlier.

Instead the blonde man reached for his own cup, sipping deliberately to ignore his screaming nature. While Sherlock relaxed a bit, he put the cup into the saucer with a clink and adjusted his back in the soft armchair, his arms stretched comfortably out on the armrests – an open gesture that portrayed a waiting answer.

Victor exhaled a sigh after the first soothing sip of the caffeine. Sherlock had always had this effect on him: he just needed a small gesture and he calmed at once, another secret among Alpha and Omega. It alleviated stress, yet he couldn’t ignore one pressing point, “I know you’re in love with John.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. The voice of his friend was gentle and quiet; no hint for a stormy rage in a fit of jealousy. Victor’s expression didn’t even try to obscure the resigned agony, his wistful eyes searching for an answer in Sherlock’s glacial stare. During their short time together, Sherlock worked hard to become a social factor in Victor’s life, yet he failed. He indulged the young Omega’s every whim, but it had never been sufficient. There remained always a tiny fraction of defense in Sherlock: defense to hide and suppress his so much loathed gender, and the social oppression that always spoke of treasures in regard to Omegas – a connotation which implied fragility and weakness. And Sherlock was neither fragile nor weak; he wanted to be free. But as much as Victor tried to restrain his patronizing nature, his subconscious dictated him otherwise. Perhaps if Sherlock hadn’t been an Omega they could have lived in a healthy relationship.

“It’s hard to love someone, who’s in love with someone else.” Victor rasped with an emotional-laden voice when Sherlock didn’t respond to his remark. “It’s even harder to love someone and accept it in order to be with him.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, finding watery eyes in his search, “You haven’t broken the bond?”

“No,” Victor always had the tiny shimmer of hope that someday it was needed. How could he destroy it? “Why not John?”

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock knew he must head for the truth. At least Victor deserved as much. “If I get infected with Morbus he might die, too.”

First, Victor didn’t understand the context, but when he looked into Sherlock’s meaningful expression he observed the self-reflection like a mirror image. Stiff shoulders started to hurt under the heavy implication, and Victor grasped the meaning, if Sherlock got infected the blond Alpha wouldn’t die in the aftermath of a long grieving agony. “I need time to think about it.”

“Two weeks.” Sherlock replied, and Victor nodded.

The rest of the meeting they remained rather in silence or switched into more casual talk. Victor mentioned that after university he worked as a graphic designer before going into business for himself as a photographer, mostly portraits. Naturally, Sherlock knew this already, but again bit his tongue and feigned the illusion of ignorance. After a while Victor asked about Sherlock’s job as a consulting detective, and he told of a few interesting cases, also aware that with an intact bond he must have known about his fake death and shifted flustered in his seat.

When they had finished their coffee, Sherlock declared that he needed to meet a client in the Victoria Tower Gardens. In fact, Billy had texted him that Charlie most often tried to sell her drugs in the small park when twilight set upon the city. _Quite bolt. Whereas next to the park politicians enact new laws, a small dealer pushes drugs to random buyers_.

Victor, who disapproved the idea of his friend meeting strangers in a sparsely lit park, insisted on escorting Sherlock – at least as far as the first trees were visible the detective permitted the company, but not farther. As they crossed Lambeth Bridge, a sudden jolt went through Sherlock. A blazing white he had paid little attention prior as he already recognized the outline of his best friend in the semi-darkness of the sunset. “For God’s sake,” he mumbled barely audible, “Bloody London cannot be that small.”

“Hmm?” Victor looked confused at Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on a man, looking at his mobile while walking toward them. “Isn’t that John?”

Abruptly, John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock. His fake Alpha scent had bored into John’s consciousness irrevocably over the last years. He came to a halt, blinking back and forth between Sherlock and Victor while the detective felt the hurt confusion.

“Hello John,” Victor took up the greeting as the other men stood stone silent.

In defiance of his own turmoil, John swallowed his surprise to act normal, “Ah. Hi Victor.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his own misfortune, already smelling the testosterone saturated air while Victor, reacting to his nature, stepped closer to his friend, “I think you’ve missed another chance of sharing a coffee with us.”

Inwardly, Sherlock fumed with rage at the presumptuousness of Victor. Alpha or not – he acted as if he had claimed Sherlock as an asset. Bile rose in his throat as he saw John getting pale at the notion. Putting on a false smile that never reached his eyes, Sherlock laid a hand on Victor’s shoulder, “And I think I can walk from here alone.” He pointed with his chin to the park just a few meters away.

Victor blinked at the sharp innuendo. Of course he was jealous. He held no other weapon to fight against the intimate bond Sherlock shared with John than to put John’s nose out of joint. “Sorry,” he leant a bit closer, whispering into Sherlock’s ear. Then he straightened his back, looking to John apologetic, “See you.” With that said he turned around, crossing again the Lambeth Bridge to hail a taxi.

“Alright,” John nodded once, pursing his lips, the mobile forgotten in his hand. He started to march into direction of the South Bank, but Sherlock’s hand cupped his elbow, preventing him to just walk away.

“John, wait…”

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” his voice monotone, John avoided the gaze of his friend as he searched desperately a point to look at, “You’ve made it clear.” _Though it does hurt, above all else when it catches you off-guard_.

“No, wait.” Sherlock’s grip got tighter at John, holding him back from leaving while an indefinite panic rose within his chest.

But John tore away his arm. “No. Sherlock,” He snapped, feeling darkness enveloping his mind, leaving only a small dimly lit tunnel. In the want of reaching the tunnel too many thoughts blocked a clear mind, hurt washing him away in an uncontrolled murky current. As much as he fought for it he couldn’t reach the tunnel. And he knew that at the end of it, Sherlock would wait for him. “You’ve said it,” his voice was hoarse from too many emotions, “You’ve chosen Victor. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Stormy blue eyes met Sherlock’s pale blue, “I can live with that.”

_Liar_. The notion as poignant as the false lie mingled with a bitter taste of copper as Sherlock realized he had bitten his tongue too hard. Fueling his nausea, he swallowed the droplet of blood, and stepped back to give John space. “I’m going to the park. Bill Wiggins told me that Charlie might show up there. Will you come with me?”

John frowned. The last time they went hunting the young Omega, he screwed it up, and Sherlock was furious with him. “Yes.” How could he let Sherlock fight this battle alone?

They left the bridge behind before angling off to the right to enter the park. Victor’s concern couldn’t be denied, Sherlock acknowledged, noticing the few streetlights spreading sparse luminance into the semi-darkness. After a moment their eyes had adjusted to the purple twilight, and Sherlock surveyed the area for other people. From where they had entered the park they encountered just one pedestrian hurrying toward the parliament building. Strangely, the whole park wasn’t really frequented. Perhaps because of the other historic sites that led to Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. In fact, this park provided the perfect place to sling drugs.

A slight drizzle began to dampen the ground and trees, and Sherlock’s nose filled with the scent of wet grass. He ran a hand through his cold damp hair as John broke their silence, “You clearly feel uncomfortable around Victor.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot to his friend, who refused to meet his glare. Astonishingly, he didn’t even deny John’s statement by replying, “Yes.” His gaze rambled to the old building of Parliament obscured by the dark shadows of trees. John could be a good observer, most often when emotions were affected, always concerned about what Sherlock would induce in someone he interrogated. Yet Sherlock didn’t want to leave room for interpretation, “But he’s not as bad as you want to see him.”

John grasped that his friend hinted at his nature of an Alpha, whose dominance blurred his rational mind. Indeed he was glad about the darkness, so Sherlock couldn’t see the twitch in his face, a downward tilt of his lips as he knitted his brows in disapproval. “Then why are you doing this?”

A flash of emotional pain that turned bit by bit into a physical pierced through him, anger rising at the world which reflected his self-loathing for being an Omega, and the lack of understanding by John. By now he must comprehend at least one reason. Why did he probe it time and time again? Helplessly, his annoyance turned toward his friend as he drawled in a spiteful sneer, “Are you volunteering?” The detective knew that John wanted what he was about to give Victor.

Sherlock had obstructed John’s way, stopped him and forced him to finally lock shady eyes with each other. “I didn’t mean…” John choked the words, clearing his voice embarrassed.

But all of a sudden Sherlock’s gaze became unfocused, looking past John to the light cone of a streetlight fifty meters behind them. A young woman leant against the lamppost, popping a stick of chewing gum into her mouth after flicking a cigarette across the lawn while waiting for potential customers. She wore the same light blue jeans, frayed at the end of her legs. The green shirt peeped out of the baggy brown jacket. This time she wore a matching brown beanie against the burgeoning cold of the night.

John followed Sherlock’s intense stare, and his pinched face brightened up with a subtle gleam as he beheld the young Omega, who might become the solution to Sherlock’s problems. “Let’s encircle her,” John whispered, although they were out of earshot. “You go straight to her, and I’ll hide behind that tree there.” He pointed to a big oak tree, near the main street on the other side of the small park. “If she tries to run again, I can catch her.”

Scanning the area for any possibilities of escape scenarios, Sherlock nodded in the end, and John dissolved into the darkness, clutching his black jacket closer. With deliberate steps Sherlock approached the lamppost, pulling up his collar against the drizzle which found its way through his wet hair and into his neck.

As the dark figure came into sight Charlie narrowed her eyes, brushing some damp strands of hair under her beanie. His curls were slicked down to his skull, and he wore more elegant clothing than the last time, but her last clue was his different scent. Her eyes widened as she recognized the Omega from the club. Why was he stalking her?

She retreated a few steps, wary of his approach. Then she smelled another one – a true Alpha, and it made her hair stand on end. Her eyes darted over the park. His scent was too fresh, so he must be nearby, too. Another step and she saw the shadow move not far away while panic rose within her.

“ _Run_ _Charlie!_ ” A high-pitched voice rang in their ears, a sudden musky scent filling his nose.

Sherlock turned around from where the shout came and detected the tall woman from the club before she tackled him with a start. Despite her slender frame the woman with a long mauve-colored ponytail unveiled a lithe strength, catching Sherlock off guard. He stumbled backward against the step to the small path in front of the sandstone wall that built the fence to the Thames. Pain jolted through him as he landed onto his arse and his head banged against the cast-iron leg of a park bench.

Several irritating seconds ticked by before the tall woman’s fists bunched crudely into his coat’s collar, pushing and yanking to heave him onto shaky legs. The world spun around him, bleary visions of white and black dotting his view. He tried to reach for his head where he had hit hard against the bench, but the unusual strength of the other woman shoved him onto the cold wall, her eyes wary as she noticed John ignoring Charlie. Instead his friend sprinted as fast as possible to help his dazed Omega.

With another resolute push Sherlock suddenly felt the emptiness beneath him, gravitation inevitably dragging at him as he fell several meters into nothingness until glacial water of the Thames embraced him with an icy kiss, making his whole body convulse into a frozen numbness.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be April 9th.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	10. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

Darkness engulfed him while icy water soaked his coat, making it impossibly heavy and dragging him down to an inevitable destination. When the paralyzing fluid met his skin, his breath caught in a choked scream of cold shock. A violent shudder shattered his nerves as he floated down to the mud coated pebble ground, his head hitting hard the stones. Yet it saved his life. The impact came quicker than expected and ripped him back to full consciousness, opening wide his eyes. The faint dots of light above him let him finally find a point to orientate again.

Struggling with the heavy Belstaff, he realized that he had to get rid of his woolen coat – with it he would never reach the surface. Stiff fingers fumbled clumsily with the big buttons, and Sherlock cursed in his mind as his lung screamed for the much-needed oxygen, burning in the effort which made him even more aware of his conscious being. He forced his fingers to open the last button and shrugged out of his imminent death.

The space between surface and ground wasn’t deep. Due to the low tide it barely reached five feet. So Sherlock fought his way back to the surface, spluttering and coughing as his searing lung sucked in the brisk air. He regretted it at once, but had no other choice. The heat in his lung and the iciness clinging to his clothes mingled with another threat to faint.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

John’s voice ripped him from the state of half drifting into a tired dream, powerless, wishing to let his lashes drop and succumb to an exhausting sleep.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” his friend shouted again from the sandstone wall, “I can see it. It’s just a few meters to the riverbank. To your left.”

His half-closed eyes cast up again, forced by his friend’s prospect. With a meager splash he struggled to move, but his limbs were too heavy, the icy cold seeping into his flesh and veins, transporting his hypothermic blood to his inner core. His racing heart slowed dangerously down, and his mind drifted once again into his subconscious sphere of his self-built palace, water flooding with crushing waves into the wood paneled labyrinth of corridors, sweeping him off his feet. Splinters broke from the walls, becoming sharp small spikes within the wild current. Doors ripped from their hinges; books, experiments, clothes, every single memory swirled in this imaginative vortex, threatening him to forfeit his life. He tried to reach for a handle, hoping the current would carry him out of this drowning sea of darkening iciness. At last he beheld one still closed door, withstanding the raging water – _John_.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” another shout – _Warning?_ – of John made his body twitch in a vague movement, hoping that his legs might find the unsteady ground. “Don’t you dare give up!” John’s voice had shifted, he realized. He must have sprinted from the wall down to the riverbank.

With shaky and weak feet he pushed his dead weight from one meter to the next, his vision blurred by dizziness and curls slicked down to his eyes. In a feeble attempt, he tried to flail about to hold the direction that he assumed to be the riverbank, rather listening to John’s anxious voice than actually seeing anything.

The water surface dwindled to his hips, and then to his thighs when he tripped over the pebble ground, losing his balance and tumbling, his knees and hands scratched open over sharp-edged stones. The cold water sloshed once again in an icy embrace, and another breath caught in his throat. His body threatened to lose consciousness afresh as his strength ceased to keep himself upright when suddenly something hard hit his head.

“Hold on tight!”

Blinking, Sherlock perceived after a second of a very slow working mind that John had thrown him a red and white lifebelt. He embraced the rescuing ring with his remaining energy and felt a jolt, leaving his whole body crying in agony while John pulled him toward the riverbank. More water sloshed into his face, making him choke before two strong arms circled around his torso.

John cupped his wrists in front of Sherlock’s chest, dragging with all his might the slender frame of his taller friend to the riverbank. Due to the soaked clothes he was unbelievably heavy while John cursed under his breath, mumbling incoherent thoughts.

His own shoes were soaked with icy water, making his toes numb after pain shot through his feet up to his ankles. He knelt down, putting Sherlock’s head onto his thighs, his jeans getting wet before a shiver surged through his body at the freezing cold.

“Sherlock,” he patted the cheek of his half-conscious friend. “Fuck!”

His hand palpated in the search for any warm spot, but found nothing besides hypothermic, almost lifeless flesh. Quick-thinking, John grabbed for his mobile, “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

But before he could dial 999, chilly fingers curled weakly around his wrist, and he felt the violent tremors flashing through Sherlock, “Nnnn…nnnoo…”

For a second John looked at his friend in disbelief. Yet after a moment of consideration he acknowledged that Sherlock was right. The Alpha scent was washed away within the current of the Thames, and if they would draw blood, Sherlock would be exposed. _Damn!_ “A cab then?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, “Too… nnggh… danger… ous…”

“Alright,” John nodded determined, opening his jacket, “Mycroft.”

His friend rolled his eyes at the prospect of his older brother being involved, but what other choice did he have? A small smile curled around John’s lips at the so typical gesture of his friend – Sherlock might be caught between consciousness and faint, yet he was still able to scowl at his brother.

“Mycroft? It’s John.” Due to the cold, his fingers began to tingle, a preliminary stage to numbness and stiffness. He shrugged out of his jacket, the icy wind immediately seeping through his cardigan and shirts. “I need your help. Sherlock’s been attacked and fell into the Thames.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line implied the seriousness of the incident as Mycroft asked, “Where are you now?”

“On the riverbank under Lambeth Bridge.” His fingers started to fumble at the buttons of Sherlock’s jacket.

“I’ll send you two of my best men. I’m occupied at the moment, but I’ll join up with you in 221B later.”

“Um… Mycroft… those two men are Betas?” Folding back the black suit jacket, John now worked at the tiny buttons of his friend’s shirt.

“Yes, of course. Why would you… _oh!_ ” A sigh escaped the older brother’s mouth as realization dawned on him.

“Alright,” John nodded, “And please let them bring several space blankets along. He was no more than five minutes in the water, but he’s in critical state.”

“Give me ten minutes.” With this he ended the call.

John slid the mobile in his jeans’ pocket and focused on the task of undressing Sherlock. Stiff fingers pushed each button through the tiny holes, leaving his tips aching in the effort. His friend needed to get into dry clothes, “Sherlock?” He leant down to the detective’s ear, “We need to get you warm. Can you sit up?”

A grunt implied the positive answer. John pushed gently at the shoulders to help his friend into a sitting position. Beneath his palms violent quivers shattered the fragile physique – a protective reaction to keep his core body temperature above a fatal degree. John knew he must be very careful, or he might cause a reflow syndrome; he needed to concentrate on the body core, and after returning to 221B he could start to warm up Sherlock’s peripheral parts.

With one hand cupping Sherlock’s neck to support his balance, he yanked at the jacket’s sleeves to free his friend’s arms from the icy embrace of his sodden clothes. As he tried the same with Sherlock’s cuffs, he noticed the unyielding buttons and hissed a curse. With a firm grip he tore the buttons unspectacularly off the shirt, sending them unseen into the darkness.

Sherlock whimpered at the sudden jerk of his arm. _I’m sorry, but please don’t fall asleep!_ John begged. His cold hand slid under Sherlock’s shirt, meeting even colder skin. With a stroke over his friend’s shoulders he stripped him off his ruined button-down. The pale body presented a white contrast to the enveloping darkness. John grabbed his shed black jacket and wrapped his friend into the blissful warmth, obscuring his pallor of potential curious glances from above the bridge.

“We need to get those shoes and trousers off, too.” He mumbled embarrassed. The black limousine would hopefully turn up any minute, so he could wrap Sherlock into those bespoken space blankets.

Carefully, he put his friend’s head down onto his removed wet suit jacket to not get any injuries under those heavy shivers on the pebble ground. He worked the laces of the black leather shoes open and pulled at the heel. Then he unrolled the black sock and repeated the procedure with the other foot.

Still a bit uneasy about stripping Sherlock off his clothes, his stomach clenched involuntarily as John reached for the button and zipper of the tailored trousers. Swallowing, he swore to himself for not being able to push such indecent thoughts aside.

“Dr. Watson?” A sudden voice from behind startled him, and he turned his head to look at a man in a black fashion suit, holding several space blankets in his hand, already freed from their packaging.

“Thank God!” John breathed in relief at the prospect of getting Sherlock as soon as possible warm again. “Help me,” he waved the second man nearer, “We need to get him out of his trousers and wrap him into those blankets.”

With the help of the two men, John had the trousers removed within seconds. They used two blankets to swaddle those long legs into a warming embrace. The third blanket was wrapped over John’s jacket, making his friend sit again.

Heavy-lidded eyes tried to focus on John, but Sherlock was still too slow. Yet he sensed the glow brightening in his chest as John felt the relief. “Can you walk while we support you?” A cool hand brushed the slicked down strands of hair off his eyes in an affectionate and calm gesture. Sherlock nodded vaguely, or at least John assumed that he did. It was difficult to distinguish any movement in those erratic shudders.

More carrying than supporting, they stumbled over pebbles and muddy ground. John had put Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder, his psychosomatic limp twinging at the memory of an old wound and an almost forgotten past. While they climbed the stony steps of the concrete staircase he could already see the black car in front of the railing.

The slow movements and the space blankets did their best to breathe life back into Sherlock’s body, and bit by bit a burning tingle returned to his legs and arms. John heaved the taller man with all his might into the leather back seat. Mycroft’s two employees took their seats in the front. As a matter of prudence, they had heated the car. After the damp iciness, it was like entering a sauna.

With a special warrant of the British security service John took it for granted that they would arrive in less than ten minutes at 221B. When the car started to move, leaving this horrid place behind, John turned to Sherlock. The detective had curled into a shivering mess of space blankets, arms folded over his torso as if he needed to brace himself, fearing to lose every sense of self-control.

“Sherlock,” John carefully freed one arm from the clenched embrace, “We must get your blood into better circulation.” With a slight pressure John began to rub in tentative circles, first the sinewy forearm followed by the upper arm, twitching muscles flexing beneath his finger.

“We have a hot cup of tea.” The co-driver turned around, holding a steaming paper cup up.

“Thanks.” John reached for it, the sudden heat stinging his too chilly hand. To not let it fall in a reflex he bit his tongue and led the cup to Sherlock’s bluish lips. His friend had closed his eyes; even keeping them open betrayed too much an effort. At the sudden heat he jerked upright, wincing at the harsh motion. “It’s tea,” John explained, “We need to get you gradually warm. If we force too much warmth at once it’ll provoke a dilation of your blood vessels, and the still cold blood from your arms and legs will be transported to your heart. Please drink.”

Sherlock sipped and swallowed. The hotness ran down his throat, burning in his stomach, and mingled with a slight nausea. After a few minutes the tea’s affect eventuated, and instead of a grimace, Sherlock’s expression softened as he leant back into the seat, the rustling fabric of the space blankets making him slide toward John’s shoulder while his friend massaged his other arm now.

After merely ten minutes and the breach of several Traffic Codes they pulled up at the curb in front of 221B. Sherlock was still shaky and dizzy, but with the hot tea in his belly and John’s rubbing his consciousness focused again back to the here and now. Together they stumbled to the front door, thanking Mycroft’s men for their invaluable help. While John fumbled for his keys in his jacket pocket wrapped around Sherlock, he felt yet again violent tremors rippling his body.

Dragging his friend the seventeen steps up to their flat, John set him onto the sofa. “I’ll make you a bath.” Sherlock’s eyes followed John, trying to compose his shattered dignity which was interrupted time and time again with brutal shivers.

On his way to the bathroom John flicked the kettle to prepare more hot tea. Then he headed for the small room, running a bath and adjusting the taps to lukewarm water. Exhausted, he sat down onto the rim of the bathtub, trying to sort his memories. He had seen Charlie run as another woman shouted and tackled Sherlock. From his viewpoint the shadowy twilight became too dark as to recognize who that woman was and what exactly happened. But as Sherlock fell off the wall, his mind turned into a screaming yellow, putting him in alert and solely focusing on his friend. Charlie and the other woman forgotten, his attention turned sharp and unyielding while a riptide of fear and pain carried him along. He had waited for the usual throbbing pain followed by the synesthesia, but the thunderstorm in his skull failed to appear this time. Instead of a headache a reddish glow burned in his chest despite the freezing cold of a too slowly ceasing winter.

When the water had filled half of the tub, John turned off the taps, realizing that the reddish warmth still lingered, melting with a soft tingle in his stomach. He returned to the living room to find a quivering Sherlock, trying to get rid of the slippery blankets.

“Slowly,” John helped him to remove the rustling foil, and pulled down the zipper of his jacket. His hands cupped Sherlock’s underarm, implying to support him. The sounds of padding footsteps crossing the flat were interrupted by the short pip of the kettle with the boiling water.

In front of the bathtub Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s shoulder, fighting with his balance to lift his leg enough to step into the warm liquid. As his foot dipped into the water, Sherlock hissed, another violent shudder shaking his body.

“It feels hot to you because your body temperature is very low at the moment, but it’s really just lukewarm,” John explained.

Gritting his teeth at the burning heat engulfing his numb limb, Sherlock found a place at the enamel coated ground of the tub to steady his balance. After a few seconds tiny needles seemed to puncture every inch of his skin as he lowered himself into the bath. Only when he sat in the tub with the water level raised to his chest, John let go of his arm. His long cocked legs bumped against the end of the tub, ensuring he wouldn’t slide down below the surface. As minutes ticked by his whole body was screaming at the stings of thousands of needles. “Dammm…mit,” his teeth clattered uncontrollably at the mix of pain and involuntary shaking while warmth bit by bit crept back into his body.

“Move your fingers and toes, and then your hands and feet,” John said in a clinical voice, standing up from the rim of the bathtub. “I’ll make us tea.” His wet hands rubbed against the coarse fabric of his jeans shyly, and he shot a last uncertain glance at Sherlock in the water before turning to go. His concern of Sherlock losing consciousness and drowning pressed with an invisible firm grip on his chest; he looked paler than ever.

Back in the kitchen he poured hot water into their mugs, adding teabags before he walked to the chimney. The logs were already piled on the grate as he lit a fire. When the flames licked at the wood he pushed their armchair closer to the mantle. Then he headed for Sherlock’s bedroom to retrieve his duvet and another woolen blanket, but not before peeking into the bathroom for another glance to reassure himself of his friend’s wellbeing. The water still rippled occasionally at the shudders, yet John got the impression they were subsiding.

He draped the blanket over the leather armchair and folded the duvet in front of the chair. On his way back to the bedroom he retrieved the teabags and dumped them into the bin. From infrequent controls of Sherlock’s stuff in search of drugs as requested by Mycroft, John knew of his friend’s system of clothes. So he took no longer than a minute the get fresh shorts and his blue dressing gown.

“Feeling better?” John asked when he stood in front of the bathtub again, grabbing a towel from the hook.

Sherlock nodded, yet his body still betrayed recurring convulsive shivers. With all his might he pushed himself up while his hands braced on the rim. His limbs still were stiff, but the sensation came back as the needles dwindled in receding intervals. Carefully, he stepped out of the tub, letting John wrap the terry towel around his shoulders, rubbing with timid strokes and ignoring Sherlock’s intrusive stare from under his lashes. Instead he focused on the softness of the towel beneath his fingers, blocking out any idea of lithe muscles below that smooth pale skin.

“Can you dress yourself?” John asked without looking up, his ears turning pink.

His clattering teeth controlling as best as he could, Sherlock replied with an unsteady voice, “Yes.”

John nodded emphatically and returned to the kitchen, leaving the bathroom door ajar in case he needed to hear a collapsing Sherlock. But the only sounds he perceived were the rustling of clothes and after a moment padding footsteps as Sherlock braced his weight with an outstretched hand along the wall, heading for the sanctuary of his armchair.

While John rummaged his memory of any image where he had seen his friend that exhausted, he realized that this was a first. He half-expected for Sherlock to keel over and fall asleep that very moment. But once again his friend surprised him as John handed him his mug without spilling hot fluid over him with a duvet draped lap. Indeed, he took a cautious sip and hummed at the increasing warmth in his stomach. Yet, every fifteen seconds a shiver shook his body over and over again. _He’s still freezing_. With his degree of hypothermia Sherlock would need another hour to get completely warm while shaking off the last quivers of exhaustion.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” with a determined jolt John stood up, shoving his armchair a bit away to make room in front of the grate. He tossed his Union Jack pillow onto the floor and sat down on it, his back resting against his armchair. “Come here,” he shot his friend a cursory look, afraid of the rejection with cynical carelessness.

Yet Sherlock astonished him once again this evening as he curled his fingers over the armrests and pushed himself up with an effort. Leaving the woolen blanket, he twined his duvet around his shoulders and placed himself between John’s bent legs, using his chest as a pillow. To find a comfortable position he slid down, crossing his legs while John’s arms circled around his duvet clad shoulders.

They were sitting like this for a while, listening to the spitting of the fire and looking unfocused into the mesmerizing dance of the flames as it consumed the wood. Sherlock felt the swelling and falling of John’s chest on his back, a steady rhythm that lulled him into a drowsy half-sleep full of images of the latest events. The heat from the mantle licked up his legs, annihilating the last remnants of cold needles while his whole body seemed to succumb to his own weight. His muscles relaxed, only interrupted by longer growing intervals of shudders.

John’s heat from behind erased the last tremors, his arms wrapped around the slender frame of his friend. His warm breath tickled at his neck and behind the sensitive spot of his ear, evoking shivers of a different kind. Through his bond he sensed concern and fear of a possible loss, but also a reciprocation of Sherlock’s own inner turmoil.

“I’m such an idiot.” Sherlock declared hoarsely, his lips a bit cracked, tilting downward at his own failure.

John looked down at the mop of drying curls under his chin. His tousled hair still smelled of the faint remnants of his expensive shampoo, the closeness and fragrance making him dizzy. “No, you’re not,” John croaked, not grasping why his friend scolded himself, “You’re just sometimes prone to idiocy.”

The chuckle reverberated through John’s chest and found its echo in Sherlock’s back. The detective’s pale hands rested folded in his lap, but now he disentangled them, reaching up for John’s snaking arms. His friend had the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up and as Sherlock’s icy fingers curled around his wrists he elicited goose bumps. “That woman,” he resumed, propping his chin onto his hands, “She was the drunk woman from the club, the one who threw her drink all over me.” John frowned while Sherlock bit his lip, “I was so blind, only focused on Charlie in the hope of getting those suppressants that I ignored my natural senses.”

“From where I stood I couldn’t see much,” John tossed in, “What happened? What do you mean?”

“Charlie’s bonded, John. That woman’s her Alpha.” Sherlock pleated his eyebrows in a deep scowl, looking at the glowing logs in the fire – a fiery red. “She assailed me because she thought I might work undercover to catch a drug dealer. Within the homeless I’m quite well-known. She was afraid I’d put Charlie into prison.”

“How would she know?”

“The same reason Charlie knew you were around – hyperolfaction. She scented you, and her Alpha sensed her fear. So she attacked me to get you distracted. She knew you would rescue me rather than run after Charlie. That woman had no intention in killing me. She’s no murderer, just a desperate Alpha to protect her Omega.”

Sherlock lifted his head again, shifting his weight as the heat had reached his torso and a slight sweat let his skin glisten in the reflection of the dancing flames. His grip around John’s wrists tightened, and he eased his friend’s arms gently apart to shrug off the duvet to his waist. Something reddish got caught in the corner of his eyes before focusing his gaze onto John’s palms. A thin red line painted an angry stroke from the ball of his thumb to his little finger, mirroring his own scratches on his hands.

With his brain too slow from exhaustion, he cursed himself for failing to observe the marks of John’s effort to pull his friend out of the icy cold water. He must have injured his palms onto those sharp pebbles, too. His eyes roamed to John’s knees, each pressed against his own legs, warming his sides. The jeans on his left knee was slashed and torn open, another evidence of red scratches hidden beneath the fabric.

The effort of sorting his mind to think straight again was still too much, and mentally Sherlock chastised himself for ignoring John’s pain. While his mind worked too stagnant it made place for more natural instincts – empathy and concern which he tolerated seldom. His gaze focused on the red stroke as he pulled John’s hand closer for examination. With dilated pupils he traced the breached skin, almost snarling and wrinkling his nose in disgust at his own selfishness. In truth, it took all his effort not to lick at the wound in a natural soothing manner of an Omega. Instead, he cupped the back of John’s hand with his own and deeply inhaled the thick Alpha scent.

“Please, don’t…” John had watched Sherlock’s every movement with fascination as it had a calming effect. Yet with his friend this close he felt utterly exposed, his memories of their dance in the club creeping back into his consciousness; not only the dance, but also the rude rejection in the aftermath of a lost hunt.

Sherlock shifted his weight, sliding down a bit to angle his head and lock blown wide eyes with his friend above. They were looking at each other for a while without saying a word. Then Sherlock broke the intimate contact, his gaze dragging back to the disgusting thin line which his long finger traced along, making John’s palm itch at the sensitive touch. “I’m sorry,” rumbled the baritone, and John felt the echo vibrating in his lower abdomen.

Not sure if his friend was sorry because of his rejection to physical closeness or his negligence regarding the recent events of this evening John blinked confused. Sherlock had put himself and therewith John in unnecessary danger. Absent-mindedly, John’s left hand began to draw trails along Sherlock’s upper arm, his subconscious mind remembering to warm and soothe his friend, too. Another long silence stretched between them in an unspoken truth.

Involuntarily, John’s mind swirled back to the moment he met Sherlock and Victor on the bridge. The behavior of the otherwise likeable guy spoke of jealousy. Without Sherlock’s intervention the other Alpha would have gone with the detective into the park, and John would have crossed the bridge with another play of colors making him almost blind. If Sherlock would indeed take Victor as his Alpha, John was certain, he would become superfluous – no friendship, no Work, no hope anymore. On the other hand he also had his doubts, whether he wanted to be a part of Sherlock’s life in that case anyway.

“Sherlock?” A tight knot clenched in his stomach as he realized the prospect of losing his best friend.

“Hmm?” Sherlock had closed his eyes, dozing off as fatigue pushed on his shoulders with its dead weight.

“I don’t want you to choose Victor.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, white and reddish dots reflecting the sudden sad whirl of the flames. “That’d be my decision.”

“Then why did you kiss me?” At the question Sherlock dropped John’s hand. The loss of the touch clung to his throat as his voice got hoarse, “Pretty rude, don’t you think? If you don’t have feelings for someone you should avoid such interaction.” A fresh wave of anger crushed down on him.

“You’re still asking? Yet you gave yourself the answer?”

_Why does that bastard always answer with a counter question, avoiding a straight reply?_ John’s fingers stopped stroking Sherlock’s shoulder, resting his palm over the perfect round shape of his deltoid. And all of a sudden realization set in: not only the meaning beyond Sherlock’s words, but also the betraying scent. Pheromones enveloped them at the naked perception of Sherlock’s undisguised natural Omega scent – luscious and temptingly musky. Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t kiss someone without involved emotions. He was Sherlock Holmes. As manipulative as he could be he would never let his gender interfere in such a way.

The knowledge made the knot behind his navel even tighter, yet sweeter, hoping he hadn’t misunderstood. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, those two pools of mercurial silver looked up, sparkling with the dancing reflection of the sparsely lit room. The darkness had succumbed to the pale blue, and John sensed he was right. “It’s _not_ an option,” Sherlock husked half-heartily as John lowered his face a bit. Unasked, the detective could give quite straight answers, although most often out of context, yet a certain number popped into John’s mind. _Thirty percent_.

“You’re afraid I might die?” John’s eyes widened as comprehension struck him. It made his whole body ripple with goose bumps because Sherlock wasn’t averse to him, but protective. Unconsciously, his hand wandered from his friend’s shoulder to his exposed throat. Cupping the vulnerable flesh and brushing his fingers upward to lift Sherlock’s head a bit higher, his thumb stroked his chin, a faint stubble making the smooth texture of his skin scratchy. The mere thought of his friend’s concern sparked off an explosion of emotions within John.

Light-headed from Sherlock’s natural fragrance that seemed to increase with each passing second, mingled with that implicit confession, John sensed a rising prickle crawling over his body, rippling his skin. The warmth flooded through his veins while Sherlock parted his lips a bit, his breath smelling of the tea they just drank. Manifested in his inner core the heat pooled in his lower abdomen, making the arousal inevitable. John was glad that he still wore his jeans, and with the thick duvet between them he hoped that Sherlock didn’t recognize his burgeoning erection.

Sherlock’s breath tickled at his lips when he noticed the released heavy sigh of the detective, “John,” he rasped, his eyes locked with the approaching lips of his friend, “It is still _my_ decision.” His hands bunched into the duvet to refrain himself of cupping John’s neck and draw him down to seal his confession. Like this, he also couldn’t detain John of closing the gap and stop the irrational instinct of his Alpha nature. But the moment the words had slipped his mouth, he realized he needn’t intervene with John’s actions because his friend winced and retreated to their former distance, letting go of his chin.

It was then when they heard the rhythmical tap of an umbrella that announced the promised visit of Mycroft. John’s eyebrows shot up at the precarious situation of him having Sherlock between his legs, but the younger Holmes just snickered and made no effort to stand up.

“So I expect an announcement by the end of the week?” The words dripped with sarcasm as Mycroft entered the flat, cocking his head to one side in a mocking gesture.

“It’s not what you think,” John grumbled, pushing gently at Sherlock’s back to indicate he wanted to get up. “He needed to get warm.”

“I suppose he’s much better now,” Mycroft observed from under his nose. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Sherlock wrapped the duvet around his shoulder, braced his palm onto John’s right knee for support and heaved himself unsteadily into a standing position. John flinched at the short pressure to his groin and felt how uncomfortable tight his jeans had become.

“It was for a case,” Sherlock clutched the duvet closer.

“What case?”

“None of your concern.”

John watched the verbal exchange, amused and relieved at Sherlock being back to his old form, and decided for a rather ungraceful departure. “Alright,” John clapped on his thighs determined, “I’ll leave you to it.” With that said, he headed for his bedroom.

As usual Mycroft ignored John when he had a dispute with his younger brother, and John listened to snippets of his brotherly compassion, “It became my concern the moment John called me to help you…”

When he closed his door the voices receded to a silent mumble from downstairs which John could blend out, and suddenly he felt his own exhaustion crashing down on him; not only his physical but also his emotional. He just wanted to lie down and give in to the alluring promise of a decent sleep.

Retrieving his pajama from under his duvet, he started to change his clothes, shedding his button-down and t-shirt first. His arousal had subsided to a soft tingle the moment the older Holmes entered the flat. Yet he gasped when his knuckles brushed along his cock to open the zipper. A twitch flashed through his lower abdomen, almost like the crushing wave of an imminent orgasm. He looked down his body – he wasn’t even half-hard anymore. But as his fingers palpated along the shaft to spot the origin of such firing sensation, he found the protruding tissue at the base of his shaft, filled with oversensitive nerves.

_A knot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be April 23rd.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	11. Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to the wonderful [LaLunaBitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaLunaBitch/pseuds/LaLunaBitch) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

He never had a knot, and somehow the small ridge unsettled him a bit. The feeling could best be ascribed as the fear of the unknown. Concerned he paced his room back and forth, trying to calm down, every once in a while his finger palpating the protruding tissue in the hope that it might subside again.

After a while he heard the door to the landing opening and closing, announcing that Mycroft left the flat. Silence set upon 221B as he listened to Sherlock shuffling to his own bedroom. The mere thought of his friend brought a flashing passion back to his groin. He gritted his teeth, lifting the waistband of his shorts. His flaccid cock didn’t induce the blazing sensitivity, but the knot.

John scrubbed a desperate hand over his face. How could he live with Sherlock when this would happen?

“Fuck!” He cursed at his own lack of self-control. For the first time he truly understood Sherlock’s meaning of being a captive of his biochemistry – his nature dictating his conscious mind. Yet, it must be all the worse with a cycle forcing his body into regular heats. John as an Alpha didn’t follow such suit. An Alpha just responded to the pheromones of his Omega, dragged into the vortex of a rut.

As the pulsing sensitivity of his knot didn’t ebb he took himself in his hand. After a few pulls and strokes he was fully erect again. A sweet combination of his hard cock and the responsive tissue at the base of his shaft pooled in his lower abdomen while electrifying impulses set his whole body aflame. His knees buckled after a moment as the ball of his hand brushed once again over the hypersensitive nerves of his knot, and he needed to sit down on his bed, his grip tightening around his prick. John knew he wouldn’t last any longer – too new, too sharp was the sensation.

He came with a stifled grunt, his body shuddering as his climax washed over him, heat spreading into his legs and stomach. With ragged breathing he fell on his bed, the softness of his duvet embracing him. Blowing his cheeks, he tried to even his heavy panting. His hand still lingered in his shorts as he grew flaccid again while his thumb searched the knot. The soft brush evoked another explosion of white stars in the darkness of his closed eyes.

“Fuck!” Despite his exhaustion of the day he jolted up again. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_.

He jumped up to pace his room once again, but stopped midstride, remembering the medical book about Omegas in his chest of drawers. A small section in the book also provided information about Alphas. With nervous fingers he retrieved the book and sat down again, the hardcover pressing into his naked thighs as he flipped through pages.

Within the anatomy section he found illustrations of Omegas as well as Alphas. His index finger stroked over the depicted swelling of an Alpha’s knot. John knitted his brows pensively. The image showed a much bigger knot, but the picture seemed to imply the various sizes of a swelling knot. He read the text below and his assumption was confirmed: an Alpha’s knot only expanded to its full size within an Omega’s body. His eyes skimmed the text for further information, especially about when a knot would subside, but he found just vague explanations. The knot would start to protrude with a certain stimulus, yet without an Omega neither masturbation nor other sexual practices would help to make the knot recede. Only if the Alpha wasn’t be susceptible to the stimulus anymore the knot would fade after a few hours.

John sighed as he placed the book on his nightstand. The answer wasn’t completely satisfying in his case, yet reassuring. At last he put his pajama on and crawled under the duvet before curling into a fetal position, careful to not brush any body part along the knot.

***

The bright morning sun set his bedroom in a blazing orange, the rays tickling his eyelids as he recognized in his drowsy state that he had forgotten to pull the curtains closed. With a groan he rolled onto his back, one arm covering the white flashes of the sunbeam. He had succumbed to sleep late in the night, and the exertion of the day before still nagged at his subconscious mind just like at his sore muscles of heaving a soaked detective from the Thames.

A clattering sound from downstairs dragged him from his bleary visions of too little shuteye. He frowned at the thought of Sherlock already up. Usually his friend slept longer – he should – even more so after the events of last evening. With a fretful grunt he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his hands over his face and ruffled his flattened hair into a tousled mess of spiky strands.

As consciousness crept back into his mind, heavy-lidded eyes snapped open at the memory of the knot. At once his hand wandered to the spot where explosive sensations had evoked a heat he never experienced before, but instead of the small knob he found only soft flesh. With slight pressure he palpated the base of his shaft for any remnant beneath his skin before realizing that it had entirely vanished.

As conflicting as his feelings reciprocated regarding the knot last night, as disappointed and relieved he was at the same time about its disappearance. Another clatter from downstairs made him jolt up slightly concerned about Sherlock’s well-being – at least he had a stressful day, too.

John grabbed his terry robe and headed for the living room, donning the soft fabric while he padded barefoot downstairs. He found his friend dressed in his pajama and a billowing blue dressing gown, pacing between kitchen and his bedroom. As it seemed he just got up from bed, uncoordinated movements betraying his still tired body while he tried to type something on his mobile. By doing so, he seemed to have encountered various obstacles in the flat like their kitchen chairs and table, and John stifled a rising giggle. He marveled at Sherlock being back again to his enthusiastic alacrity.

“Nnngh!” A shout accompanied the incoherent interjection as Sherlock glared at John in irritation. Within two long strides he reached his friend and pressed his mobile exasperatedly at John’s chest. Sherlock didn’t dwell on his friend’s amused astonishment, ignoring his questioning look while pacing to their desk. Just at the last second John could catch the dropping mobile. “I need you to type a message to Lestrade for me.”

John looked at the display, showing Sherlock’s email account with the DI’s address already filled into the recipient’s field. “Why?”

The detective whirled with all his grace around, a thunderstorm flaring behind his eyes. “Because my fingers are aching and feel arthritic. Writing that damn message would last an eternity.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I tried, but he doesn’t answer his phone.” Sherlock mumbled affronted, flexing his sore hands.

Nodding his understanding, John eyed his friend who grimaced at the stiffness. “You have sore muscles because of the heavy tremors yesterday. It’ll pass.”

“I know,” Sherlock snapped at John, “But it doesn’t help me right now. So will you please write for me?”

“Fire away!”

“Write him that he shall call me immediately when the Met will be called to a female Alpha murder. I want this case.”

John frowned at the screen, typing Sherlock’s instructions and hit send after a couple of minutes. When he looked up he found the detective with steepled fingers under his chin, sitting in his armchair and glaring into the long dead flames of the fire. “What case?” John asked, adjusting his red armchair into its original position to take his seat across Sherlock.

His friend’s eyes softened at the question, the unfocused stare turning its attention on John. “Charlie’s.”

At the name of the young Omega dropped John’s stomach, “A murder?”

“Her Alpha,” Sherlock’s rich voice sounded breathy, leaden with emotions whereas John never expected empathy in his friend for victims or bereaved.

“How do you know when even Greg isn’t involved yet?”

“Dr. Gale called me fifteen minutes ago. She told me that Charlie showed up, completely distraught. It must have happened after her Alpha, Claire, threw me into the Thames. She explained they were followed when they left the park. So they split up to meet again in their usual stash, but her Alpha didn’t show up. According to Charlie, she searched their other hideouts and found the body in their stash near an underground station.”

“God,” John husked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Somehow, Charlie fell into a near-catatonic state, leaving the body of her Alpha and seeking the help of Dr. Gale. But there’s nothing anybody could do for her.” Sherlock swallowed and bit his lip.

“What do you mean?” John asked when his friend failed to spell out the purport.

“She’ll die anyway.” Sherlock cleared his voice, trying to compose himself. “While Alpha’s may have a thirty percent chance to survive the mourning, an Omega doesn’t have such a chance. When an Alpha dies the Omega irrevocably will die, too, within the next three to five days.”

John mouth fell open at the sheer atrocity of such a reality. “We need to find her,” he exhaled breathlessly, “That she can be brought somewhere, to a save place, where she can’t harm herself. We…”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice agitated and loud with an edge of irritation. “It’s a biochemical process. And it doesn’t matter whether Alpha or Omega, John. You can lock them up, confine them to bed, yet they won’t survive the agony of the loss when their hormonal level falls. An Omega doesn’t even have that bit of a chance.” His hands curled into angry fists.

Horrified, John watched every twitch of disgust and melancholy in Sherlock’s angular face. His heart seemed to skip a beat at another sad truth about the rare gender. Remembering their conversation from the last night, John realized that not he alone might die in the aftermath of mourning if Sherlock got infected with Morbus, but also Sherlock if John would die. Another pull of gravity made him feel light-headed as cold pressure lingered on his chest, nearly suffocating him.

“How did she know that it was murder?” John swallowed the rising nausea, taking a deep breath while all he wanted to do was to reach out for his friend, touch his hand and pull him into a tight embrace, comforting him.

“She sensed it through her bond, a screaming yellow. Her Alpha was afraid and at pain when she died.”

_Yellow?_ John blinked confused. “Jesus.”

“When Dr. Gale explained that she couldn’t help Charlie, she panicked and ran away.” Sherlock pulled a face between anguish and disappointment. “Without her we don’t know where the body of her Alpha is, and when we locate her because someone perceives the smell of a dead Alpha, it’ll be probably too late and Charlie will be dead, too.”

A moment of speechlessness stretched in the flat, the only sounds coming from downstairs as cars and busses drove through Baker Street. “For an extinct gender,” John mused, “There were a lot of them dying in the last weeks.” He didn’t refer alone to Mrs. Miller and Charlie’s inevitable fate, but also to an unknown drowned Omega in Brighton and several others around the world.

Sherlock’s eyes found John’s at the remark, holding his gaze. Curiously, Mrs. Miller was the only Omega who died of Morbus. All the other cases seemed to be accidents involving their Alphas if they shared a bond. The detective had shoved the thought aside for a few days because he couldn’t prove any pattern. And why would someone have an interest in killing Omegas? Human-trafficking, yes, but not murdering them. “We need to find Charlie. Only she can explain us what happened yesterday.”

“How? She’s pretty good at hiding.” John tried to shake off his worry. They had chased her twice and lost her twice.

“Dr. Gale gave her my number,” Sherlock stood up, picking his mobile from John’s hand, “But I doubt she’ll call. Perhaps she thinks it might be our fault that her Alpha died or even that we might have been involved in killing Claire.”

John swore under his breath. Could something ever work smoothly? “Again: how will you find her?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. “I’ll think of something.” Then he headed for the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed.

Before his friend vanished into the bathroom, John stood up, too, a sudden turmoil churning his stomach. “Sherlock?” He had never seen the detective lethargic or out of ideas. His friend betrayed the swirling energy of a child in the search of clues for his cases, prancing around and never doubting to lose the battle, but now with his shoulders slumped in defeat he seemed to have lost his glow in the most important case of his life. And it hurt John to see his friend like this; as if he already had surrendered to his unwanted fate. “I respect your decision, but don’t take it all by yourself. I’m your friend. And whatever you decide I’ll always be there for you. Just don’t believe you’re alone in this.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as John poured out his heart and the flood of emotions through his bond made him choke. No words would pass his hoarse throat at the most honest confession of his friend. So he nodded, clenching his jaw while unseen tears stung to his eyes at the brutal injustice he committed to John.

Before making a life-altering mistake Sherlock wheeled around and almost fled for the bathroom while John watched him go, standing forlorn in the middle of their living room. After a while he flexed his left hand and flopped into the sofa, retrieving the current newspaper from the coffee table.

He skimmed through the pages, reading news about politics and society. Interestingly, with the discovery of the dead Omegas worldwide barely a journalist dared to report about them in detail. Maybe the media didn’t want to fuel hope? Or despair?

Absorbed in the news, John didn’t pick up the doorbell. Three short raps with a distinct _Woohoo_ heralded Mrs. Hudson. “Haven’t you heard the bell?” She asked, sticking her head in the door.

“No,” John pleated his eyebrows, “Sherlock probably put it in the fridge again.”

“There’s someone who wants to see Sherlock.”

_A client?_ John contemplated a moment if Sherlock’s mood would approve a private case. “Let him in.” He decided in the end. If the case was boring they could always decline it.

Still clad in his terry robe, he adjusted the belt around his waist, waiting for their guest. Footsteps on the seventeen stairs announced a light-footed person, climbing rather with vigor than with depressed feelings of helplessness.

“Hello John,” the familiar voice greeted as John turned around to meet Victor.

“Victor?”

The blonde man stopped at the threshold as he looked into John’s dumbstruck face. A purposeful glance into the living room revealed him Sherlock’s absence. “Is Sherlock at home?”

Confused, John followed Victor’s eyes through the flat too much taken by surprise at the sudden visit by the other Alpha. “Um…” he cleared his voice to regain his equilibrium, “He’s in the bathroom, having a shower.”

Victor sniffed slightly, flexing his hand in which he held a paper back. “Can I come in?”

_No!_ “Sure,” John stepped aside to let the man in. His body language screamed with reluctance, but he couldn’t slam the door in Victor’s face, could he?

“I’ve brought coffee and some fruits for breakfast,” the other Alpha lifted his arm, rustling with the paper bag. “In school Sherlock tended to be negligent of eating healthily.”

John snorted a laugh, “Not only in school.” So Sherlock’s concept of transport didn’t just show up as a side effect of his Work. It was a small, yet interesting fact of his friend’s past.

“Is he all right?”

The question caught John off-guard, a frown drawing lines between his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I… um…” he sniffed once again, but then comprehension dawned on John: Victor had sensed it through his bond. It was the only logical assumption.

_So he hasn’t broken his bond for all these years_. Jealousy crept up his spine, but also pity. _How desperate Victor must have been to keep the bond intact?_ John bit the inside of his cheeks. “He’s okay. Fell into the Thames last night.”

“What?” Victor’s expression froze in horror.

“Yeah,” John rubbed his neck, “Such things sometimes happen when you work as a consulting detective.” A slight satisfaction spread through John at seeing the other Alpha’s smooth features slip. Secretly he hoped he had shocked Victor. The tall man should be aware that Sherlock would never give up his dangerous lifestyle, never allow anybody to compete with his Work – unless they would become part of it. Not by any stretch of imagination could John see Victor on a stakeout with Sherlock.

“Where were you?” Without blinking, Victor’s clear voice cut like a knife, the reproach on the tip of his tongue.

“What?” John’s hackles raised at the insinuation.

“When I left, you went with him,” Victor squared his shoulders with intent to appear broader, stepping into John’s personal space. “Where were you?”

“Pulling him out of the Thames, obviously” John spoke through gritted teeth, anger flushing him and leaving twinges in his fingertips. He was so not going to explain himself. His hands flexed once again, curling into fists to dig angry crescents into his palms. If this man hadn’t been an old friend of Sherlock’s, he would have punched him into the face.

“Did it really have to come to that?” A sharp contortion supplanted his usually gentle countenance. “You’re an Alpha. I’ve trusted you.”

_Now he sounds like Sherlock’s already his Omega_. A pang of injured pride flashed through John as he looked taken aback at the accusation. “Better get used to it,” he huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “Because that’s what he’s doing. He won’t stop his Work for _anybody_.”

Now it was Victor’s turn to tear his gaze away, beholding the pile of files and loose papers on the desk. John had hit a mental blow. The Work meant all to the detective and he would never give it up. After all, this wish forced him to make that momentous decision. Another sniff made his eyes snap back to John’s, a burning stare turning those warm maroon eyes into fiery embers. “I smell him on you.”

John’s eyebrows arched as he noticed that Victor didn’t mean Sherlock’s fake Alpha scent. After Mycroft’s surprise visit, he stayed in his bedroom, and since then John had no chance to take a proper shower. Sherlock had snuggled up too close to him, undisguised than not rubbing off his natural fragrance on John. It might be subtle, but Victor seemed to have a very good nose.

“It’s not what you think.” John stuffed his hands into the pockets of his terry robe, obscuring every inch of exposed skin in the hope of smelling lesser of Sherlock. _And by the way it’s none of your business_.

The intense glare of the other Alpha made John’s skin rippling in goose bumps. It reminded him of the moments in Afghanistan when they knew the enemy lay behind the walls of their camp, eager to attack them at any time. All his muscles tensed, a sudden thrill flooding him to revive an almost forgotten itch. John would seem quiet and calm to the outside, yet inside he was like a young twig that could be flexed in anticipation of breaking, but when it reached a certain degree the twig snapped back instead. At these moments John could be most dangerous.

“And what should I think?” Victor’s composure also grew strained, dragging one step closer to John in a very deliberate movement.

The flat suddenly too small threatened to suffocate them as their hormones ran wild. “Nothing,” John replied, holding his stare while tension crept up his spine, making even his tousled hair on his head tingling with the overwhelming urge to stake out his territory. The blonde man wasn’t Sherlock’s Alpha yet, and with Victor’s demanding demeanor, John wouldn’t tell him anything of what had occurred the last evening. It probably made no difference anyway: whatever John might explain they were both too much absorbed in their nature than to listen to their sanity.

The sound of Sherlock opening the door to the bathroom saved them from giving in to their predetermined course. As soon as their eye contact broke the density between them faded until only a slight pounding pressed on their chests. John retreated a few steps from the aggressive Alpha scent, his breath growing ragged in the aftermath of the warring hostility. He assumed that their nature held Victor as well as John captives at the occurrence of an injured Omega. They had no other choice, but to bristle with pugnacity. Somehow, it frightened John, and as he shot Victor another glance from the corner of his eyes he saw the same shock.

Before Victor came into view from the corridor Sherlock had already smelled him. “What are you doing here?” His eyes darted between both Alphas, the thick fragrance in the room making his nose wrinkle. He needn’t his bond to actually observe that John was upset, flexing his hand in his pocket.

“I brought coffee,” once again he held the paper bag up, trying to sound cheerful in the effort to shake off his irritation. But one cursory glance sweeping over Victor betrayed his tension and agitation. Without doubt, he knew through his bond that something happened the last night.

“Alright,” John broke the silence, marching toward the bathroom. “My turn for a shower.” He pushed past Sherlock, perceiving the freshly applied Alpha scent. Curiously, it settled him down as he was more used to that fragrance of Sherlock. Yet he ignored his friend’s confused look.

When John had closed the door to the bathroom, Sherlock’s eyes snapped to Victor. “What happened?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?” The slightest hint of reproach hung in the air as Victor exhaled a sigh and his strain faded. “John and I had a disagreement about your well-being.”

“If I didn’t step out of the bathroom in time, you would have charged at each other.” Sherlock breathed the musky scent in, “Don’t pretend otherwise. I can smell it.”

Victor slumped his shoulder in defeat. “Coffee?” He asked, offering the bitter caffeine as an apology, “I’ve also brought fruits.”

Sherlock considered the idea for a moment. Victor and John seemed to have caught on the wrong foot, but maybe the waves would calm when John finished his shower. This might be a good opportunity for them to become acquainted with each other.

An affirmative nod implied that Victor could enter the kitchen. He put the paper bag onto the table and retrieved three hot paper cups along with some strawberries and three apples. While Sherlock took a cutting board and a knife from a drawer Victor washed the fruits. From the corner of his eyes the blond Alpha cautiously watched his friend handle the knife, but before Sherlock set the sharp instrument to slice the apples Victor’s fingers curled around his hand.

“Let me?” Gently, he freed the knife from Sherlock’s grip. The detective rolled his eyes irritated. This was yet another trait of an overprotective Alpha. He crossed his arms, pouting, and leant his hip against the kitchen counter next to Victor. When they shared a room in the boarding home it had been similar with him taking care of his Omega. But Sherlock also remembered that the initial solicitude assuaged over the course of time. His friend just needed to learn to trust Sherlock’s abilities again.

He watched Victor for a while, tilting his head in a question. “What did you say to John?”

The Alpha stopped mid-slicing, but didn’t dare to look into his friend’s face. “That he should take better care of you than to almost let you drown.”

“You do realize that without John I’d be already dead since five years? He saved me on numerous occasions.” The baritone sounded calm, yet with a hidden warning of never challenging John’s skills again.

Now Victor dragged his eyes to Sherlock, his maroon flying over the acute expression of his friend. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday.” His ears focused on the noises coming from the bathroom where the shower rushed in tiny droplets, obscuring any snippets from the kitchen, so John wouldn’t eavesdrop. “I consent to your proposal on one condition: I want you to break the bond with John Watson.” He took a deep breath, “I don’t want to be an _option_ , Sherlock, or a _backup plan_. I want at least to have a real chance. That this –,” he waved his finger between them, “That _we_ could make it work.”

Bewildered, Sherlock looked into the apologetic eyes of his friend. It was a genuine wish which spoke of honest jealousy and affection at the same time. Sherlock understood that decision: if he had been in Victor’s position he would demand the same from him. His stomach churned as knots tightened. He knew if he broke the bond and still met John the bond would recreate again. Although unsaid, Victor’s condition implied not only breaking the bond, but also breaking the friendship. Only if Sherlock stopped seeing John the bond wouldn’t recreate. The truth settled gravely in the pit of his stomach, making him feel queasy and the prospect of the fruits seemed suddenly irrelevant. Why must it be that everything he wanted had to come with a high price?

His lips were pressed to a thin line, tilting slightly downwards as he swallowed. “I’ll consider it,” his voice sounded shallow, like an empty echo in his mind, “But now I need you to go. I forgot a case I’m working on.”

It was an obvious excuse. Of course Victor recognized the lie, but he had braced himself for the rejection when he contemplated upon holding a gun to Sherlock’s head. He nodded and put the knife into the sink. On his way to the landing he shrugged into his short coat which he had draped over John’s armchair. Before leaving the flat he turned once again to Sherlock who held the door open. “I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

“No, your request is comprehensible.” Sherlock conceded even though the truth hurt. The bond with John was the only thing that had kept him alive during those two years while he dismantled Moriarty’s network.

Encouraged by the honest reply, Victor stepped closer, his hand cupping Sherlock’s neck, fingers combing through the curls of his hairline. His gaze dropped to the perfectly shaped lips of his friend. Sherlock’s eyes widened with concern and in anticipation likewise. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t withdraw as his body hummed at the closeness of an Alpha, seeking the touch. And then Victor pressed his lips on his – chaste and shy. Although his body didn’t recoil, his inner turmoil screamed at the tenderness while Victor tentatively nipped at his bottom lip. He pressed his lips together, his eyes focused on the closed lashes of his friend. Swallowing, he forced his right hand upon the chest of the Alpha, pushing ever so slightly.

When the other man leant back again a wary smile crossed his face, fondling with the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head before releasing them. “Goodbye Sherlock.”

The detective nodded. At the receding footsteps he closed the door, his heart hammering fiercely in his chest.

***

Four days later Lestrade called Sherlock, “How the hell did you know about the death of a female Alpha near an underground station?”

“Murder,” Sherlock corrected. “Where are you?”

“Clapham North,” the DI huffed at the terse sentences. “But Sherlock, this doesn’t look like murder.”

“It was,” Sherlock grabbed John’s jacket from the hook at their door and tossed it to him, disrupting the Alpha in his armchair and his interest in a book. “Don’t let forensics destroy any relevant evidence. They might trample on clues, seeing as how ignorant they are. Give me thirty minutes.” With that said, he ended the call, shrugging into his own coat.

“Did they found Claire?” John asked, following the detective downstairs.

Sherlock darted for the curb, waving down a cab as he replied, “Yes, but according to Lestrade it doesn’t seem like murder.” A black car pulled over, and they climbed into the rear seats with Sherlock giving their destination to the cabbie. They glanced unfocused out of the windows for a while. A slight drizzle had coated the streets since the morning. “We need to find Charlie. She’s the only one who can tell us what happened.”

John watched Sherlock who bit his bottom lip. “Alright,” he huffed, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, “We learnt from Dr. Gale that Claire was murdered, but there’s more to it, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock held John’s gaze, “You’ve pointed it out yourself a couple of days ago.” John’s furrow deepened, trying to remember what his friend was referring to. “There’s a pattern in the scheme. Someone’s killing Omegas by letting it look like accidents either by involving their bonded Alphas or some sort of suicides.” He shook his head, locking sharp eyes with John. “That’s no coincidence.”

Precisely thirty minutes later they arrived at the Clapham North tube station which was cordoned off by a blue and white police tape. Sally Donovan stood nearby with a small notebook in her hand, writing something, her pen scratching audibly. Without looking up, she explained, “He’s inside, waiting for you. Another scenario with an excruciating stench.”

John took a cautious sniff and noticed the vague memory of the smell from Mr. Miller. Yet this time it didn’t meld with the scent of a dead Omega. Sighing in relief, he followed Sherlock ducking under the tape.

“How did you know about her death?” Sally put her pencil down and lifted her chin, looking down her nose at the detective, her voice dripping with suspicion.

Sherlock anticipated that the question would come up. “Homeless network. I have an acquaintance who informed me that a friend went missing.” Wasting no further words, he turned around tracing the necrotic scent of a dead Alpha.

They descended the stairs to the tiled passageways of the tube station and encountered three men from the forensics, already clad in their blue coveralls talking to Greg Lestrade. “Five minutes,” he instructed the forensics who gritted their teeth at the exception for the consulting detective.

At the approaching footsteps of Sherlock and John the man with the cropped salt-and-pepper hair turned around. “There you are,” he handed both a pair of nitrile gloves and a flashlight, showing them the way through an entrance for the service staff. “We don’t have much time. The chief superintendent is a little indignant about you being involved because it doesn’t seem like homicide.”

“As I said, it was murder,” Sherlock emphasized again as they passed a narrow corridor which led them further down to a metal staircase, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.

“I hope you can prove that,” Lestrade talked over his shoulder, “And how the hell did you know about this _murder_ anyway?”

“Her Omega contacted my informant, but then ran off,” he withheld the identity of Dr. Gale as his whistleblower in this case, not wanting to cause any more damage to her reputation.

“Wha – ?” Lestrade stopped mid-stride, facing Sherlock with the flashlight. “Another Omega?”

“Yes,” he shoved the DI’s hand downward to avert the blinding light cone from his face, “She sensed the murder through her bond. And we need to find her quickly before she dies, too. That Omega’s the only person who might be able to help us find the murderer.”

Lestrade’s frown deepened, and he nodded before resuming their way. The dark corridor ended at another door, leading them to a dead-end track. They followed the track fifty meters to encounter in the wall an alcove not larger than ten square meters. Two constables were stationed at the entrance, standing guard in front of the crime scene. They had placed a floodlight in one corner of the alcove which made the flashlights redundant.

Blocking the entrance, Sherlock took a moment to scan the nook. In the left corner of the room lay a queen-sized mattress on the cold stony floor, several flashlights and candles framed it. In the middle of the alcove Charlie and Claire had put down a rusty fire box of an old barbecue to fuel a fire, keeping the coldness at bay. Across from the bed stood a wooden table similar to their own kitchen table and a chair. He took a careful sniff, but the dead Alpha’s scent whitewashed any other odor. His eyes dragged again to the mattress where Claire lay in a half-open fetal position, her back to the brick wall. Sherlock’s stomach dropped at the sight, mingled with the smell and his entire being screamed in agony at the loss of an Alpha and its consequent desolation. It ensured just a brief glimpse of what Charlie must feel. His own fate once again visualized, Sherlock watched John stepping into the room from the corner of his eyes.

He swallowed and breathed through his mouth, yet the scent lingered on his tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. John knelt down beside the mattress to examine Claire while Sherlock stood, hovering over both Alphas. A tourniquet twined around her left upper arm, and a small puncture at the bared crook of her arm implied an injection. Sherlock’s eyes roamed to the cold floor along the edge of the mattress and hunkered down. He put on the nitrile gloves and gingerly picked a thin object up, holding it between thumb and index finger – a syringe.

“No signs for use of violence,” John leant over the corpse, examining every inch of exposed skin. “No bruises as far as I can assess without removing her clothes.”

Sherlock sniffed at the syringe, but any trace had faded days ago. Beside him, Lestrade opened a small plastic bag for Sherlock to put the evidence into it. “As I said before, no hints for a murder, but an autopsy might prove otherwise.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe she died of an overdose. And the fear when she realized her mistake was conveyed through her bond?”

Even though Lestrade worked as the leading inspector in this case he always tended to ask his deductions in front of the consulting detective; a formed habit over the course of years where Sherlock more than once falsified the DI’s conclusions. “No, _she_ wasn’t the addict.” Sherlock replied curtly, leaving open that Charlie was the heroin addict. Claire would never have touched the drugs Charlie sold. Her Omega needed a healthy Alpha. “A bonded Alpha would never futilely risk their life like this.”

Dumbfounded, Lestrade’s eyes dropped to the bagged syringe while Sherlock strode to the table. A few more candles stood on a chipped plate almost burned low to one chunk of wax. Loose papers and a charcoal crayon lay cluttered while on the right side of the table stood a neatly closed plastic box which contained a clamp binder. Sherlock let the pages run over his thumb, flipping through several sketches and completed works of London’s sights, drawn with a charcoal crayon. They were really artistic, almost photo-realistic and on some drawings posed Charlie as well. At the end of the binder he found a note: _One day I’ll show you the world_.

“What’s that?” Lestrade peeked over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Claire’s sketchbook,” Sherlock mumbled, absent-minded.

“Claire?” asked Lestrade who hadn’t been able to identify the body so far.

When Sherlock failed to answer, too much absorbed in his thoughts, John replied for him, “Yes. Her name’s Claire, but we don’t know her last name though.” He stood up, his job finished as he wasn’t able to declare her cause of death for certainty. “What’s this?” His eyes marveled at the astonishing drawings, his shoulder brushing Sherlock’s for a better view in the semi-darkness.

“Obviously Claire’s been an artist.” _One day I’ll show you the world_. Charlie and Claire seemed to like traveling, but couldn’t afford any trips so Claire drew her Omega in front of sights in London.

“This reads like a sightseeing tour along the Thames,” John furrowed his brows, looking at the pages through which Sherlock flicked.

Blinking, Sherlock tilted his head sideways, giving John a curious look. Then he paged once again down: Westminster Abbey, London Eye, Millennium Bridge with a view to St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower Bridge with the Tower in the background. In between they found a few sketches of smaller churches along the Thames. Apparently Claire had a preference for baroque churches. In his mind’s eye Sherlock listed the sights and recognized the pattern – they were sorted from west to east. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmured, stunned at his friend’s observational skills.

John’s hand suddenly intervened with Sherlock’s, turning back three pages. As a precaution every drawing had been slid into a sheet protector, but one of them was empty. “There’s one missing.”

They flipped the pages back and forth. The missing sight seemed to be located between the Millennium Bridge and the Tower Bridge. “Southwark Bridge, London Bridge,” Sherlock mused, neither of them a famous sight for tourists.

“Southwark Cathedral?” Lestrade tossed in, referring to the pattern of recurring churches in the sketchbook.

“Wrong side,” Sherlock replied. “All the drawings are restricted to the north of the Thames.”

“Maybe, the Monument to the Great Fire of London?” John rubbed his neck.

Sherlock screwed up his eyes in concentration, “That doesn’t fit the pattern.” His voice rumbled deep in his throat as he focused on the virtual map popping up in his Mind Palace: partly he could walk the way between those bridges along the riverbank, but mostly he needed to use the street running parallel to the Thames. Walking the distance wouldn’t take him even twenty minutes. He passed several buildings, old and new until he stopped in front of a historic church. “Oh,” it was barely an exhaled whisper, but John knew that the detective had ascertained a clue. “The church of St. Magnus The Martyr.”

“The _Martyr_?” John asked.

“It would fit.”

“You mean she’s going to kill herself?” Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, not following the chain of thoughts of his friends.

“Her Alpha died, hence their bond was forcibly broken. In that case the Omega will also die – be it due to a catatonic shock or through a suicide as it happened to Mr. Miller.”

“And why do you believe that she hasn’t already ended her life?” The DI shrugged his shoulders while Sherlock turned his face, a look of disbelief boring into Lestrade which spoke of _Pay attention!_ “Oh…” the DI folded his brows as a minor epiphany struck him, “The missing smell.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, snapping the clamp binder shut. “Come on, John.” He dropped the sketchbook into Lestrade’s hands and headed for the exit.

They spent their drive quiet while the cab wiggled its way through the cobweb of London’s streets. Sherlock rested his elbow at the window frame, his chin propped in his hand. The drizzle had stopped and left an overcast day which matched his gloomy mood. It was the fourth day, and Charlie most certainly a shadow of her former self, trying to dissolve herself from the world by falling into catatonia; stopping eating, stopping breathing, stopping being.

“What if we don’t find her?” John’s gentle voice dragged him out of his somber contemplation.

Conscious of John’s ambiguity behind his question Sherlock sighed. The shifting of the Alpha betrayed John’s tension. With an Omega’s life at stake, every cell in his body struggled with the inevitable reality of losing Charlie. “I’ve also contacted Bill Wiggins. Hopefully he might spot her once again.”

A few minutes later they arrived at the small church. Sherlock’s eyes swept over the old building as they got out of the taxi, but found nothing suspicious. The church was open for visitors, and so they entered, the detective determined to ask a verger if the young woman with the distinct pixie cut had shown up here. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t help them out with their question.

Disappointed and churned up Sherlock paced the pavement back and forth, rubbing his temples at his vain attempt. John knew that interfering with his friend’s temper right now bordered upon the impossible; he would just reap a sharp-tongued comment about how plain his mind worked, and he wasn’t in the mood for insults at the moment. His hand rubbed over his face as he tried to remember when they last had some peaceful time together. He got the feeling that they were chasing an unseen enemy, desperate to find a solution for Sherlock’s nature, and by that getting more and more involved into a murder case without resolving the preliminary conflict. Lifting his face to inhale the cool air for a clear head, his eyes fixed suddenly on the building next to the church.

“Er… Sherlock?”

The detective stopped his nervous pacing and snapped, “What?” When John didn’t lower his gaze, he followed his friend’s eyes to see two legs dangling from the rooftop. His features slipped and his heart began a fierce marathon thudding in his chest.

“There’s a black fire ladder,” John pointed to a metal staircase behind the church, and without wasting any further thoughts they darted along the small alley between the two buildings.

Taking two steps at a time they hasted at least seven floors to the roof of the building adjacent to the London Bridge. They sprinted along beside the metal-capped upstand, leaving behind a few superstructures in the middle of the flat roof. When they arrived the side facing St. Magnus The Martyr church Charlie came into sight, her back to them, sitting on the upstand with her legs dangling into dangerous emptiness. She had a good view at the church tower, in her hand the missing drawing of herself with the baroque church in the background; it flapped in the breeze, but the young woman seemed unaffected by the coldness.

“Charlie?” Sherlock deliberately drew closer as the other Omega turned around, startled by the sudden voice. Her eyes widened, recognizing the stranger from the club and park.

“Stay back,” she waved her hand, her voice a fair warning which spoke of concern instead of fear.

“Let me help you,” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled even lower in his throat while John already braced himself for another sprint to catch the Omega if she really considered jumping, every hair standing upright at the tension creeping up his body.

“You can’t help me,” her hand clenched the drawing, crumpling it at the corner. Her slender structure shuddered finally at the cool wind, and John perceived the undisguised scent of an Omega. She hadn’t bothered to apply her Beta scent this time. Her eyes looked weary, framed with dark circles. Her pale face was pinched with cracked lips; only a slight shade of pink painted her cheeks. “I’m going to die either way.”

Sherlock took another tentative step toward the woman, “Look…”

“I have Morbus!” She shouted, tears stinging her eyes. “Don’t come near.”

At this, John stepped in front of Sherlock, his arm blocking the detective to walk on. “That’s just a threat to keep us at bay.” Yet his voice betrayed the edge of uncertainty.

“No, they must have infected Claire.”

Sherlock’s mind began to race at his deductions, “It was _you_ they wanted. They wanted _you_ to take the heroin spiked with Morbus viruses.” It was the only logical conclusion according to the pattern of killing Omegas. “Your Alpha wasn’t heroin-addicted. _You_ are. They wanted to kill you, but you fled, and they caught Claire instead. By killing her they achieved the same goal.” His voice drifted into a whisper, nodding at Charlie’s words: no one could help her.

Tears started to draw fine lines downward her cheeks, and a sob escaped her mouth. “She would have had a chance if I hadn’t run away.”

“Can you tell us who followed you?” John asked, his hand still splayed protectively at Sherlock’s chest. “Who did this to your Alpha?”

She looked for a long moment unfocused at John as if she had already given up on her life, but in the end she shook her head. “It was too dark.” Then something snapped inside her, her eyes suddenly clear and determined, and she looked at Sherlock. She must have been on this rooftop since she had found Claire four days ago, hiding and using the superstructures on the building as shelter. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” The wind almost swallowed the words, mirroring the detective’s own remark about helping her. Nausea bubbled up his throat as he recognized that they had come too late. Charlie let her weight sway into imbalance until she dropped backward, falling into nothingness.

“Fuck!” John’s hand let go of Sherlock, darting toward the upstand. But he was too late.

While John stared down the building, Sherlock stood at his place without moving as if gravitation tugged at him, not allowing him to leave his spot. Frozen, his heart pumped distraught blood through his veins with vigor as the world around him grew still with its only terrifying focus on John – and John alone.

All the noises of the streets faded: cars honking as they drove by, the chirping of birds in the late afternoon which had returned from the south at the promise of spring and the appalled screams of the people on the pavement. A recurring thrum – the rushing of his own blood – muted the world, a tight pressure plugging his hearing while a high-pitched constant whistling stretched into eternity. His vision narrowed to a pin-head of sight, seeing splattered blood and a contorted body lying on the with cobblestone furnished ground. He wanted to say something, but with his constricted throat he rather felt like suffocating and retched twice before inhaling deeply to settle his nerves.

John reacted to the loss of an Omega, of his failure to save her – a natural reaction. But what his bond conveyed shook Sherlock to his very foundations. As if John’s emotion yelled at him, the agony of losing the most precious being in his life brewed with so much anger and disbelief and doubt and crimson love. Sherlock’s mouth tightened at the realization, a twitch at the corners let his chin tremble. John wasn’t emotionally shaken because of Charlie even though his nature called for his Alpha’s predetermination. No. His mind’s eye provoked his agony as it replayed the memory of Sherlock’s jump to death, and for the first time he truly perceived what harm he had caused to his best friend.

The sensation crushed at him again and again like a tidal wave until the emotional hurt turned into actual, physical pain, making his whole body ache with blazing impulses. He could barely breathe and his eyes betrayed the horror at his own crime he had committed to John. His friend didn’t see Charlie down on the pavement, but Sherlock lying in a pool of blood without a pulse.

Vertigo enveloped him as he put one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to John at the far edge of the building, his mind bleak. He wanted to say something, but his tongue kept glued to his palate. The wind would probably take his hoarse words unheard away. _Please_. A whisper?

John had dropped to his knees, his palms bracing on the cold metal of the upstand, looking down, not able to avert his horrified eyes. Sherlock’s hand appeared on his shoulder, an anchor to not give in to the dizzying sensation reverberating in his chest. _Look at me_. He heard numb words pressing through the rushing drum in his ears. Yet he refused to drag his eyes away from the pavement, another gush of colors blurring his vision as anger flared up hot and off-guard. An almost forgotten question as to why Sherlock had done this to him nagging at his mind; a question he had never answered. Instead another question popped up, “Would it have affected me if we’d been bonded and you’d have jumped?”

The answer to the question was irrelevant, but the reproach behind those words was not. “No, because you’d have known that I didn’t die.”

“It’s so irritating,” his voice betrayed the edge of disgust, but Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if the sentiment was directed at him or at the meaning of his sentence. Victor would have had no doubt whatsoever. Bracing his hand on his right knee, John pushed himself up, shrugging off Sherlock’s hand. “Look at her,” he demanded icily.

“I don’t…”

“For Christ’s sake,” John hissed at his friend, fists bunching on his coat’s collar, “Look at her!” The command didn’t mean to show him the contorted body of the young Omega, but John wanted him to see what he had seen the day Sherlock faked his death.

“I don’t need to.” The wind blew a cold breeze, tousling his curls, and hot tears stung to his eyes. His bond had already expressed his irrevocable mistake.

John’s hands uncurled at the obstinacy of his friend, a hint of doubt crossing his mind. Another yellowish hue tinted his surrounding, and he blinked furiously to get it off. He shook his head in disbelief. “These synesthetic impressions are making me crazy.”

“What?”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he brought some space between them. “All these colors are entangled with emotions. Not mine, but yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Was that the reason his bond sent impulses like an echo recently? The realization made the detective even paler than usual. “Oh no.” The words husked, barely a whisper. All his hope vanished with the unnecessary death of an Omega crumbled into dust. All his efforts died as a flicker set the flames ablaze, tendrils gripping at him and entwining them in a new shimmer of subdued hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be May 7th.
> 
> Since the lovely LaLunaBitch will be pretty much occupied within the next two months, she told me that she can’t beta-read for ‘Unbreakable’ anymore. Because I’m not an English native speaker there are always some minor mistakes in grammar and punctuation. That’s why I’m asking here if one of my readers would want to beta-read this story henceforth. I’m fairly certain now that this story will be finished with the 17th chapter. So, I’d be really happy if someone would take over the beta-ing. Just shoot me an Ask via Tumblr or you could leave a comment here.
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	12. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I want say that I was overwhelmed by the positive feedback of volunteers for beta-reading this story. I found two very lovely beta-readers who put quite an effort and time into helping me out. So a huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

They stood in silence, the cool wind tugging at the Belstaff, wafting like a billow of black smoke. When the breeze hit him, goose bumps rippled across his skin, seeping through the layers of clothes as John’s words wreathed into his consciousness. His stomach clenched in tight knots. As hard as he had fought to conceal those last bits of his secrets, bitter was the forfeit of the perception that John had eluded his fate. What an injustice! Still, a small nagging sensation in the back of his mind shivered with excitement at the newly conflicted hope. There was no reason in denying John’s words. He knew the truth as his bond reverberated the echo of the Alpha’s confusion. The color spectrum overlapped with hues and contrast, blurring his image.

His hushed words made John’s lips press together, nostrils flaring as he mistook the meaning. _Oh no_ , Sherlock had said. A flash of disappointment and anger flooded him with coldness worse than the icy water of the Thames, appalled by his friend’s apparent indifference. “Are you even able to bond?”

_You machine! Spock!_ John’s previous words resonated with the question. Was that really what John thought of him? By now he must comprehend that this wasn’t the case. His bond must convey otherwise. It hurt, and a blaze of annoyance began to swirl in his chest mixed with an unshielded vulnerability, reliving what he had sacrificed for John Watson. How could he not _see_ this, especially now? “I am.” He couldn’t say anything further, a lump constricting his throat with misery.

John retreated a few steps, hoping to cut the flow of emotions because Sherlock’s reply implied experience with bonding. His weathered lines softened a bit, realizing that he had hurt his friend with his reproach. He ducked his head, eyes glued to his feet in defeat. “I know that you think it’s the Alpha nature,” he started, “That only the Alpha feels attracted to the Omega. But you’re wrong.” His eyes drifted reluctantly back to Sherlock, seeking the incomprehension that must be there. But he was surprised to find none – only an empty stare, signaling his surrender.

Of course Sherlock knew that all along. John had felt attracted to him from the beginning. Back then, in Angelo’s his deductive skills had sufficed to read his friend’s expression like an open book. His gruff rejection of the unfamiliar Alpha should have brought home the message that he shunned any relationship beyond friendship – it was plainly too dangerous to be exposed. But it didn’t help that with each passing day the gravitation pulled at them, closing the gap between a platonic relationship and something more. When Sherlock acknowledged that they had come to the point of no return, he drew a closing line and jumped into death. “It happened the day that aggressive Alpha attacked me after our midnight dinner.” His voice rasped in his tight throat.

“What?” John tilted his head, a frown deepening his crinkles.

“You were exposed to my natural scent for the first time that night,” Sherlock’s expression was hollow, thoroughly defeated because he had lost the battle of protecting the man he held most dear. “With the obstacle of the fake Alpha scent out of the way, my Omega pheromones dragged you in and interwove your fate with mine.” He inhaled deeply and let the weight of his words sink in. “I am so sorry, John.”

“Don’t be.” A new blue wave crashed against him. “I loved you long before I learned you were an Omega. I need neither hormones nor a bond to create those feelings. So don’t you dare tell me that it’s my nature dictating me how I feel about you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Know what? Sod this.” John waved a dismissive hand, and Sherlock’s brows furrowed as his friend ignored what he had said. “I’ll find a way to break it.”

Pain seeped through every pore, clenching with a tight grip at his heart. “No, you won’t. It’s too late.”

John’s head snapped up, irritated eyes locking with Sherlock’s which betrayed a terrible amount of rare empathy. “What do you mean? You said yourself that a one-sided bond can be broken, and…” His thoughts trailed off as understanding dawned on him, mouth open at a truth he could never have predicted.

Another silence stretched between them, and Sherlock observed his friend’s expression slip into disbelief, and comprehension about his reproach of not being able to bond a couple of minutes earlier settled in. Shoulders sagging, John blinked and took a step backward, putting more space between them in the hope of shutting out the stream of Sherlock’s confusing emotions. “It started the day I jumped from St. Bart’s. I suppose the imminent loss of your friendship was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

While John’s posture faltered, Sherlock regained his composure. This time they had indeed come to the point of no return – fate written in their newly bound biochemistry. Thinking of the danger he had involved them in made the lump in his throat even more prominent, but he swallowed it stubbornly. With no further secrets, Sherlock allowed himself for the first time to make a life-altering decision in his favor – no hiding, no self-loathing, no fear.

“Then why did you jump?” John’s voice broke, and he blinked stinging tears away before remembering his emotions would be echoing across Sherlock’s mind. The ghostly image of Charlie’s death fogged his mind and a new swell of cold pain rose within his chest. _Why did you do this to me? Why didn’t you come back if you sensed that I was hurting?_ The unspoken questions swirled in the air more desperately in the need of an answer than the one John had asked aloud.

“In order to save you I had to die. It wasn’t just a question of the sniper aiming at your head. I _volunteered_ for the mission of dismantling Moriarty’s network because this opened a chance to grant you a normal life.” He took a deep breath, his voice heavy with long-hidden emotions. “Without me, you were perfectly safe – no dangerous lifestyle, no succumbing to the temptation of a bond, and, therefore, the risk of Morbus hovering over our heads like Damocles’ sword.”

“But you came back.”

“My brother saved me – in some way. He didn’t make me return only because he needed me to solve the case about the underground network.” Sherlock paused, contemplating if he should resume his explanation. “Through his MI6 informants he learned that a terror cell of Moriarty’s network held me captive for quite a while and that I had given up on myself with no way out. So he saved me, and I came back and did exactly the thing I left to prevent.”

John clenched his jaw, avoiding digging into the implication behind Sherlock’s words and asked instead, “So once again you made a decision on my behalf?”

“I wanted to protect you.”

“That worked well,” John’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You planted me directly into the hands of an assassin.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rasped another apology.

“You know, you stressed on several occasions that you wanted to decide your own fate, yet you always tend to take this option away from me.” He started to pace back and forth, “And they told me I have trust issues?” And there was it again, that echo reverberating with bitter hurt at the insinuation, like a dull thrumming pulse boiling through his veins. When John heard first about bonding his imagination had run wild, thinking of it as the utmost romantic confession, but now it rather felt as if he was trapped in this bond, passing their intermingled emotions back and forth.

“Trust issues?” Sherlock snapped back, “Don’t talk to me about trust issues. The whole world chases Omegas as if we are assets. We’re sold to those who can afford us. We’re bred for little Omega children. We’re dragged to scientists for their experiments, hoping to find a vaccine. The few remaining Omegas aren’t bound to any ethic moral as we aren’t regarded as humans but precious objects.”

Guilt settled in John as he realized his mistake, his anger slowly ebbing away. For the first time Sherlock had openly referred to himself as an Omega. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to push down his inner turmoil. Both people he truly loved in his life lied to him over and over again. Mary’s devious betrayal still stuck in his bones. Her love was self-serving if it even was love at all. He couldn’t tell for sure anymore. And Sherlock, the man he always supposed might never be able to have feelings, surprised him with yet another lie of concealing his love for so many years. His emotions seemed to drown John in a multi-colored current. He shook his head, a snort of laughter escaping his mouth at the recognition that there could never be lies between them again.

“John…” Sherlock began in a reasoning tone, taking a step forward, a careful attempt in closing the gap between them.

A warning finger shot up, stopping Sherlock mid-stride, “No.” He didn’t want his friend too near, afraid of the heat radiating from him, afraid of his manipulative touch, afraid of his rumbling voice deep in his throat not softened by the wind, afraid of that fake Alpha scent. Running a desperate hand through his hair, John gazed at the black fire ladder, “I need some time to be alone. Some time to think.”

He swerved around Sherlock in a hurry and headed for the exit, consigning the Work to the detective. Sherlock would contact Lestrade and close the case on the missing Omega, leaving the unanswered question of who killed Claire?

When he reached the main street the realization hit him hard. Someone was killing Omegas, and Sherlock might be in danger too. His eyes drifted back to the rooftop where he saw the Belstaff billowing in the wind, but he just couldn’t bring himself to face his friend right now. He said that he needed to be alone, yet there was no _alone_ anymore. With all the turbulent emotions swirling in his head and chest, his heart ached, profusely overwrought. If this bond was already unbreakable, as Sherlock had implied, what would become of them now?

Worried, he produced his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialed, waiting for the other end of the line to pick up.

“John.” The clear voice of the older Holmes sounded through the speaker, and John literally heard the smug smile.

“Hello Mycroft.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Although the older brother hid his concern behind courtesies, John, over the course of the years, could read it between the lines.

“The Alpha who threw Sherlock into the Thames a few days ago is dead,” John explained without beating around the bush. “She had an Omega who just committed suicide.” An audible exhale sounded at Mycroft’s end. “Sherlock believes there’s a pattern and someone’s killing Omegas.”

“Are you with him?” Mycroft’s voice betrayed a sharp edge.

“No.”

“Why?” The man with a minor position in the British government could be very persuasive regarding the surveillance of his little brother. In most cases he expected for John to immediately jump at his command. But today John was too emotionally compromised to give in to that sort of power game.

“Maybe that’s a question you should ask Sherlock.” John suggested, wriggling himself out of Mycroft’s interrogation.

“Where is he?” John gave him the address while wandering in the direction of the Tower Bridge.

“Um… Mycroft?” A question popped in his mind.

“Yes, John.”

“What can you tell me about the undercover mission in Eastern Europe you wanted Sherlock to send off on?”

“Not much,” John could hear the suspicion in Mycroft’s reply. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Did Sherlock volunteer for that mission?”

There was a long pause at the other end before the older Holmes replied, “He was asked, but I wanted him to decline.”

“Why?”

“Because he most certainly wouldn’t have come back.”

_So he had lied again. He would have died without my knowing of what would have become of him, never meeting him again._ Tears stung to his eyes at the revelation. _He killed Magnussen to protect me and Mary. No. Just me!_ _Shouldn’t it be the other way around: the Alpha protecting his Omega?_ All of a sudden Sherlock’s loneliness crashed down on his shoulders with its dead weight. “The picture with Moriarty – was that you?”

Another long pause accompanied by a sigh let Mycroft’s voice sound tired, “Unfortunately no.”

John nodded in comprehension. “All right. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Though John knew that Mycroft seldom condescended himself to explain the hard facts if it didn’t benefit his own purposes. “Goodbye John.” With that said, he ended the call.

John found a bench near the riverbank and dug his palms into his eyes, arms propped on his knees. He felt emotionally wrung out though inside raged a storm of conflicting emotions. Not all of his own making. Somehow, he had never assumed that Sherlock inhabited such deep affection and despair and passion and remorse and, and, and, and… Salty water sent forth tendrils of tears from under the pressure of the heels of his hands. How could he be so wrong about his best friend? Why had he not seen this behind Sherlock’s self-imposed façade of a sociopath? _Because you don’t observe_.

Thumbs wiped the tears away, blinking at the colors of his surroundings. They got brighter, their contrast sharper, clearer, and he recognized for the first time that he truly _saw_. It seemed that the disclosure of Sherlock’s last secret made the bond complete. He had no headaches anymore, and likewise the dizzying sensation ceased. Only when a strong emotion surfaced, did certain colors in his vision pulse, making him aware of what Sherlock was experiencing.

A repetitive throb of fear manifested in his stomach – Sherlock’s fear. But why would he be afraid? To sense other’s emotions might be helpful, yet it left a huge space for interpretation, and suddenly failure threatened to crush John – failure to protect Sherlock once again.

He sensed the sharp pull like a magnet back to Sherlock, his nature commanding him to protect his Omega. _His!_ Could he say _his_ now? Or would Sherlock stick with his original plan of living with Victor Trevor?

_No. He just chose Victor because he wanted to protect me_. But Sherlock had underestimated John’s unbroken devotion in his friend with his never waning love. No. There was no need for Victor Trevor anymore. To a certain degree he pitied the other Alpha. Victor had clung to his bond for so many years in the hope of finally getting what he wanted. Yet, once again he lost his chance. John squirmed uncomfortable on the bench. What would become of Victor’s bond now? A hand rubbed his stiff neck as he realized that the blond man must have known about Sherlock’s feelings all along.

He lost track of time, sitting there with a view of the old Tower Bridge, tourists walking by and taking pictures. Without recognizing hours had slipped from his mind. His leg began to twinge on the wooden bench, and an inner agitation made him leave the place, wary of the curious eyes of other pedestrians. He must look miserable with too many impressions of the last few hours. So he walked without a particular goal through London’s streets, only with a vague direction toward Baker Street.

He gave St. Magnus the Martyr church a wide berth on his way. The gruesome picture of Charlie so vivid before his mind’s eye, that nausea tightened his stomach yet again. His breath caught in his throat at the dire awareness of the other aspect of a bond; instead of Charlie it could have been Sherlock. This was his friend’s fate if something would ever happen to John. His throat constricted, his breath becoming shallow as he understood Sherlock’s situation – his protectiveness. If John would switch his position with Sherlock he would have chosen the same to protect his best friend.

John knew that most of his anger resulted from Sherlock lying to him about his death, allowing him to suffer through the loss of his best friend. His death had also allowed John to meet Mary. Mary, the cause of so much pain and betrayal along with the wistful promise of a daughter. But now that he fully comprehended Sherlock’s motivation, a new wave of empathy embarked his mind.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me_.

After trudging half the day through the labyrinth of London’s buildings and parks, his tired feet suddenly got lighter and the vigor of his usual march prompted him to almost run for home. He didn’t know for sure, but somehow he could perceive closing the gap between himself and Sherlock again as if he sensed his presence in 221B.

When he opened the door he recognized the change at once. The fake Alpha scent was gone, replaced by a thin almost imperceptible fragrance which John had given little attention to the last time due to adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Absent-mindedly, he shrugged out of his jacket and put it on the hook next to the front door. Usually he took his jacket upstairs, but he was too stunned by the enticing mix of a sweet and musky odor to produce any coherent thought. Sherlock must have taken a shower, John mused, standing on the landing and looking up the stairs. His foot rested on the first step, afraid of what might await him behind the threshold of their flat door.

After a short moment of hesitance, he climbed the stairs, a pang of nervousness setting his stomach aflutter. Once again he recognized that it was a mutual feeling mingling with Sherlock’s tension.

The door stood ajar, and John pushed it open before his olfactory sense hit a far thicker scent, making him light-headed while his nature craved for the temptation behind the threshold. He closed the door. Wary of his nature, he pressed his back against it and forced his body to restrain from dragging himself like a mindless Alpha to the origin of that alluring fragrance. His eyes swept over their dimly lit living room. It had become late, John recognized, and mentally scolded himself that he hadn’t thought of bringing a take-away along. Sherlock’s laptop radiated light from the screen on an empty chair at the desk. John’s eyes roamed to the leather sofa where he found the detective, sound asleep it seemed; no steepled fingers as in an impious prayer, trying to find a solution to an insoluble case. Instead his softened features complying with the exhausted need for sleep making him look so impossible young and vulnerable. The sharpness and prancing agitation slipped from his body as he had curled himself into a protective fetal position. His blue dressing gown clung to his slender frame, used as a blanket to cover himself from the invading coldness of the night.

John stood there for a long moment, just marveling at the soothing image. “You are late.” The deep baritone broke the silence, a breathy shadow of its usual strength, laden with sleep. Sherlock had his eyes closed still, but of course he could smell him. Beneath the dressing gown Sherlock stretched his limbs luxuriously, casting off the stiffness caused by the too short sofa.

“You removed your Alpha scent.” The statement implied an unspoken question of _Why_.

“Keeping a promise,” a faint smile hushed over Sherlock’s lips as he locked mercurial eyes with John’s by angling his head back over the armrest. Several seconds ticked by as they read each other through their bond.

John took a deep breath, hoping to sound calm despite his inner turmoil of a still lingering small amount of anger oddly mingled with empathy. “I want to apologize.”

Heaving himself into a sitting position onto the softness of the sofa, Sherlock never lost his eye contact with John. A frown furrowed his brows, “For what?”

Shame crawled up his spine, tinting John’s cheeks pink as he remembered his rough behavior on the rooftop. “I shouldn’t have dragged you half over the upstand to look at Charlie.” He blinked, avoiding Sherlock’s intense gaze, looking down at his feet embarrassed. “I’ve been an utter idiot.”

With a creaking noise from the leather Sherlock stood up, but didn’t dare to draw closer to John, the harsh rejection on the roof still drifting in his mind – John’s face contorted in hurt and anger. “No, you’re not. I’ve already refuted your argument once. You’re just a very emotional person, John.” He paused and waited for his friend to meet his eyes again at the negation of his self-perception. “That’s why we fit so perfectly, why others saw us as a couple long before we even conceived it – the sociopath and the heart. Like I once said: you keep me right.”

_At my wedding_. John remembered sourly. “You’re no sociopath. Don’t pretend otherwise because right now I’m bleeding with your emotions.” With a sigh, John peeled himself off the door, the scent still prominent in the room, yet not so dense anymore as he got used to it. It left him space to breath, yet the sweetness lingered in his nostrils, almost tasting it on his tongue like the evening in the club. A shiver whispered down his spine at the memory. “Tell me,” he began, already knowing the answer, yet he wanted to hear it from his friend once and for all aloud with no barriers of lies between them, “Why did you kiss me in the club?”

Sherlock swallowed, his throat bobbing. “This is not my area, John,” he pleaded, and ever since John had entered the room he seemed to falter.

“Stop it,” John snapped mildly, stubbornly. “Since you cannot lie to me anymore I want to hear it.”

There was a queer sense of vengeance, and Sherlock distinguished a slight satisfaction conveying through the bond. He forced his eyes back to John, holding his gaze and suddenly his fear dissolved into those faithful steel blue eyes. “Because I love you.”

John studied him for a long moment and then nodded in almost imperceptible tiny jerks. He knew that this was indeed not Sherlock’s area – his friend simply made too many mistakes regarding emotions. But this confession portrayed the most raw and honest insight of his friend. It elicited each red particle in the room to dance brighter, illuminating the flat with fiery fervor. An explosion of emotions that John had never assumed finding in Sherlock Holmes until that blissful day he was attacked by that rough Alpha, so John got exposed to the pheromones that initiated the bond which lurked beneath the surface for far too long. “Come here.”

With one swift step over the coffee table, the dressing gown billowing with the motion as Sherlock consumed the emptiness between them. John bunched his fists into the dressing gown, mimicking the harsh gesture on the rooftop to translate it into a loving caress. Tugging at the blue fabric, he dragged Sherlock in an embrace. His arms circled the slender frame, and they just held each other for several minutes.

John buried his face into the crook between neck and shoulder, his hand cupping the nape and playing with some stray curls. The undisguised Omega scent was intoxicating. For the first time he stood close enough to inhale deeply. Sherlock imitated John’s action, breathing in the tart musky Alpha scent. His hands had clawed into the brown cardigan, worried John might change his mind, and anger would gain the upper hand again. He pressed closer, feeling John’s accelerated heartbeat against his own chest, bellies bumping as they sniffed at each other, taking deep long breaths.

“Maybe we should synchronize?” After a while Sherlock broke the silence, a smirk letting his eyes sparkle.

John tilted his head in suspicion, quirking an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“It might help if we adjust our emotions. It’s less confusing. That’s why I removed the Alpha scent.”

“What are you implying?” Absent-mindedly, John played with the curls, the soft texture between his fingers tickling his skin. “Is that your way of asking me to be your Alpha?”

John could see how Sherlock’s pupils dilated, leaving only a small pale blue ring. “Yes.”

One word that hung heavy in the air, weighing like a lifetime, and the flat began to sizzle with the tension of John’s decision. “And you won’t back out?” Sherlock’s irrational behavior from the club still gripped John to the marrow.

“No,” the whisper conveyed another apology for causing so much hurt in his best friend.

Through the bond John knew the truth for sure now, making further words redundant. “I want to kiss you. May I?” Although he sensed the affirmation, he still needed to ask if this was consensual.

“Yes.”

Their lips collided the moment Sherlock spoke the word. John cupped his face with his hands dragging him down, while Sherlock’s hand didn’t dare let go of John’s cardigan, afraid that this might be just a dream, and he would wake any moment.

A pulse drummed through their bodies, crawling under their skin and letting goose bumps ripple. The gentle pressure of John’s fingers tingled not only Sherlock’s skin, but also John’s – a reverberation of the touch through the bond like a pulsing mirror image. The bond made it a lot more intense, and a glowing settled in their stomachs.

John nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, his tongue brushing along the soft pink flesh. The kiss started shy and tentative, the events of the day too prominent as to completely trust their bond and drift in the current of passion. Yet below the surface lurked a hunger John tried futilely to reign in. Sherlock’s scent grew stronger at the closeness and John got drunk off the pheromones, relenting to his instinct and sucking that perfectly shaped bottom lip into his mouth while Sherlock’s tongue probed past John’s upper lip, the sharpness of his teeth behind it in provocative contrast.

At last, Sherlock uncurled his fists on John’s back. His hands flat against it, he caressed the woolen texture of the cardigan’s fabric over obscured shoulder blades, moving beneath several layers of clothes. When they had kissed in the club, he had been too focused on dancing and John’s closeness to completely surrender his restraint. But now he needn’t withhold anything. His hands wandered, exploring, to John’s front, putting each annoying button through the hole to peel the cardigan off John’s shoulders. Strong hands trapped his face, pulling him down even more fiercely, not bothering himself with shrugging out of his cardigan.

John licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth, their tongues melting. With a sound caught between frustration and a purr, Sherlock broke the kiss reluctantly, grasping John’s wrists. For a split-second John’s eyes betrayed panic that his friend might withdraw again, but his fear dissolved into relief the moment Sherlock tugged at the sleeve to free one arm from the unnecessary layer of clothing. His eyes kept glued to John’s blown wide darkness as he repeated the procedure with the other arm and tossed the brown fabric to the floor. Instead of closing the gap to resume their kiss, Sherlock’s fingers splayed on John’s stomach. He reveled in the flat softness beneath firm muscles while his hand roamed to the flank, rounding to the small of his back. With one step he closed the distance between them, pressing his slender frame against John. His lips parted a bit as his fingers brushed against the cold metal tucked behind the waistband of John’s jeans. Since his divorce from Mary, John never left the flat without his gun. Sherlock tugged at the Sig to free it from the jeans, a small mischievous smile crossing his lips at the reminder of his soldier. With safety on, he threw it onto the armchair next to the sofa.

Now that John was allowed to use his hands again, he yanked at the loosely bound ribbon of Sherlock’s belt. He mirrored the detective’s gesture by shoving the blue fabric over his shoulders so that it pooled around his bare feet. Sherlock’s hand returned to John’s waistband. One long finger trailed along the coarse fabric while John stroked over Sherlock’s back to cup his neck again and pull him down for another irresistible kiss. Tongues met and brushed at each other in a mutual dance, and Sherlock was drowning in the sensation. His eyes rolled back in his head as he closed them while John sucked at his tongue, stroking the side with his own. The pressure increased as Sherlock leaned down into the kiss and pushed his skull into John’s touch on his neck at the same time. And suddenly it wasn’t enough. The heat of their mouths melded with their ragged breaths as well as the heat radiating from their bodies while each layer of clothing became simply too much.

Sherlock’s idle hands began to pull and tug at John’s brown and white checked button-down shirt, freeing it from his waistband. An eager hand traced below the shirt to find a ribbed undershirt. “For God’s sake,” Sherlock mumbled tersely into John’s mouth, “You’re definitely overdressed.”

A chuckle bubbled up John’s throat. He took advantage of the short interlude to pull Sherlock’s dark blue shirt over his head, exposing him to the coolness of the living room without a fire in the grate. Instead, the glow in his stomach roared into a fire, pooling its heat in his crotch, sending electrifying impulses through his body. He had seen Sherlock half naked before when he tended to his bullet wound, but he had always shoved any thoughts of a sexual nature aside to be the doctor his friend needed. Yet the image of Sherlock’s exposed torso had served him in times when he took himself in the hand. But now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

John took his time, looking at Sherlock, eyes sweeping over the scar Mary left forever in the alabaster skin. His fingers fluttered over the protruding tissue of healed whitish skin, “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock rasped, his eyes locked on John’s downward gaze, drinking each feature in, finally unabashed without averting his eyes. He bent down, kissing the sensitive spot below John’s left ear, evoking a content sigh while John’s hands splayed onto the firmness of his torso, feeling smooth skin moving over lithe muscles and hard ribs. The kisses trailed down his throat, a contrasting composition of scraping teeth and soft strokes with his tongue mouthing over his carotid. His fingers had returned to John’s shirt, fumbling impatiently with small buttons. When he had three buttons undone, he growled annoyed, “Help me with those buttons, or I’ll rip them off.”

“Then rip them off.” The reply came at once. How could he care about intactness of his shirt if that meant breaking the exploration of his friend’s body?

A cracking sound tore through the living room, buttons flying in all directions. With two swift yanks at the cuffs, he also freed John’s wrists, wrenching and shoving at the fabric of the ruined shirt; no prudence necessary or desired. The button-down landed ungracefully on the floor along with the abandoned cardigan. Sherlock’s hand darted back to his friend’s waistband, tugging at the white undershirt with vigor and pulling it over John’s head, who chuckled at the urgency. The whole procedure left his honey colored hair tousled, single strands sticking out in little spikes.

Finally there was no layer of clothing to disturb the naked touch of hot skin on hot skin, and it was overwhelming. Sherlock cupped his friend’s head, long fingers curling around his skull, dragging him into another fervent kiss, another jolt of pleasure searing through his body. Arms snaked around Sherlock’s torso, hands gripping at his shoulders from behind. Too lost in the sensation he didn’t trust his legs, clinging to the steady balance of Sherlock. Dizzy from their deluging bond and the physical caress of their bodies, they stumbled backward, Sherlock pinning John against the door behind him.

Sherlock’s taste was intoxicating, pheromones enveloping them and fueling John’s desire. A throaty groan escaped his mouth as his friend pressed closer, draping John with his lithe body. Sherlock’s thin pajama bottoms concealed little, and John could feel the burgeoning erection against his own, trapped in too tight jeans as the friction increased.

After a final suck at Sherlock’s full bottom lip, he trailed kisses along his jaw and down his throat. John’s hands wandered to his sides, the distinct ridges of narrow hipbones poking into his palms until he met the ribbed texture of the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, hanging obscenely low. Sherlock had tilted his head for better access, nibbling at John’s left shoulder and trailing his tongue over the scarred skin of his bullet wound from Afghanistan. His breath caught in his throat as John cupped his arse, thrusting into the touch. While seeking more friction a sudden flash set John’s body aflame, pooling at the base of his shaft, and his own breath hitched. John’s head fell forward, resting on Sherlock’s chest as he struggled to regain control.

“It’s the bud of a knot.” Sherlock’s voice, laden with arousal, appeared at John’s ear, his lips tracing the shell. “Not a full knot as I’m not in heat yet, but enough to stimulate you with an extra sensation.”

If John hadn’t already been completely flushed red, he would definitely be blushing crimson at the memory of his first knot, wanking to make it disappear again. Sherlock’s finger scraped over the zipper, tracking the outline of John’s cock concealed by his jeans. He pressed at the right spot to reap another gasp as John arched into the stroke. “Bed.”

Sherlock locked his eclipsed eyes with John’s and nodded. His mouth suddenly felt too dry to speak as he realized that their bond would be consummated, and henceforth would grow and become stronger with each passing moment. He took John’s hand and guided him through the living room into the kitchen for his bedroom.

“Shit,” the sudden curse made his stomach drop before disappointment flooded their bond, cold tendrils gripping at his spine, and he stopped mid-stride. Sherlock turned around to find John biting his lower lip. “Please tell me you have condoms?”

Blinking, the detective grasped the reason for John’s swearing. “No.”

“Neither do I.” John’s shoulders sagged. It had gotten late and he wasn’t really keen on looking for an open store where he could buy condoms.

A squeeze of his hand dragged John from his contemplation. “Mycroft ensures that I am tested on a regular basis every six months. An old habit due to my former recreational drug habit. I was last tested four months ago. It came back negative, and I’ve had neither sex nor relapses with cocaine.”

John looked at his friend, recognizing the offer and nodded. “As a physician I get tested at least once a year. Mine was seven months ago. Also, negative.” He paused, dropping his sheepish gaze to the floor. “I haven’t had sex with Mary since she pretended to know about the pregnancy. Obviously she was afraid I would find out about her lie.” His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, his chin jerking upward in defiance at the austere truth, to find Sherlock’s unbending eyes. “So…” John cleared his voice, “If you don’t mind…” But before he could end his thought, Sherlock gave his hand a slight tug and turned to drag his friend along to his bedroom. “Um… Sherlock…” John began hesitantly as they entered the dark bedroom, “How many pills are there left anyway?”

Sherlock turned around once again, raising an eyebrow. He understood that John asked, not with the upcoming heat in mind, but because of the probability of an unwanted pregnancy. “Five,” he replied, “And then it will take between one to three days until a cycle hits me.” His eyes locked with John’s, “We’re perfectly safe.”

John nodded with a jerk while Sherlock let go of his hand to switch on the lamp on his nightstand. When he had padded back to John he hooked his index finger into John’s waistband, tugging gently to close the gap again. Another kiss melted their tongues while Sherlock fumbled with John’s leather belt. This time, John helped him with the button and zipper, and before he knew what was happening, Sherlock’s hand writhed into his jeans and into his shorts, long fingers curling around his hard cock. He couldn’t help, but release a long moan into Sherlock’s mouth, arching into the warm touch. With the other hand Sherlock worked the jeans down along with the underwear, the thumb of his palming hand merely a feathery touch on the sensitive tissue protruding at the base of his shaft. “You have no idea how much I’ll need this in a few days.” Sherlock had tilted his head to John’s ear, his breath tickling at the shell, his voice sultry and lowered to a whispered purr.

John understood the unambiguous notion, resonating in those words. His eyes widened at the visualization, and he swallowed. “Erm…” he cleared his voice awkwardly, embarrassed about his lack of knowledge, “Do we… um… do you need lube?” He remembered a passage in the book about Omegas that only in heat a sufficient amount of cervical mucus would be produced.

A soft pink painted the cheeks of the detective, but he shook his shame off, taking John’s hand, and guided it to the small of his back. Their intertwined fingers glided beneath his waistband down the firm curve of his arse to dip them into the cleft, eyes never leaving John’s dark pools. “I don’t think so.” He husked, his breath shallow at the intimate touch. “You’re stimulus enough.”

John exhaled a shaky breath as his fingers dipped into warm dampness. Sherlock’s head bent down to John’s neck, inhaling the musky Alpha scent and unable to resist the urge to lick long stripes along John’s throat. A sound between a moan and purr made his lips waver as John’s other hand pulled at his waistband, letting the bottoms drop to Sherlock’s feet.

A short piercing pain made John gasp, realizing Sherlock had just bitten into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and fueling his arousal in a pleasant way. Sherlock’s hand had released John’s straining erection, and instead he sought to caress their bodies. Another jolt seared through John, setting his whole being aflame as their cocks brushed against each other. John couldn’t help, but squeeze his friend’s buttocks, resisting the desire to sink his teeth somewhere in that smooth alabaster skin.

Sherlock licked the spot where a red crescent marked his claim before stepping out of his bottoms and walking to the bed. He pulled the dark gray bedspread back, a beautiful interplay of contrast portraying between Sherlock’s pallor and the fabric. With his long legs he kicked the duvet aside as he crawled onto the bed and rolled on his back in a glorious motion.

John toed his shoes off and shed his jeans and socks in one swift movement to follow suit. The mattress dipped under his weight while he climbed over Sherlock whose position was clearly an invitation. He lowered his head to Sherlock’s ear, “You are so hot. I know that you despise what you are, but you should always remember that I wanted you from the very moment I set my eyes on you in that lab.” He felt the shudder rippling through Sherlock beneath him. His knees tucked up to brace his feet firmly beside John’s legs, rolling his hips up and stroking their cocks together.

Sucking at an earlobe to stifle a string of profanities, John’s hand wandered up his friend’s side, exploring his skin and the landscape of his ribs. He trailed tiny bites and kisses down that long throat, lingering a moment on the sharp ridge of his Adam’s apple, sensing the humming moan beneath his lips. Every time he put his mouth on a new spot of creamy skin, their bond released a pulse – an echo of what the other sensed and it fueled the anticipation of each new touch. John’s lips traced the protruding line of his friend’s collarbone, kissing the hollow in between. His tongue darted and licked further downward until he encountered sensitive rosy skin. Lips closed around the nipple and teeth scraped ever so tenderly, evoking a deep throated rumble while Sherlock became a shivering mess. So this was indeed a very sensitive spot on Sherlock, John grinned at the sensation of the pebbled nipple against his tongue.

Sherlock’s hand had come up to cup John’s neck, fingers raking through hair while his other arm covered his mouth, stifling a moan which he deemed too loud. John gave the nipple one last pinch with his teeth and followed a trail further southward. His mouth tracked the vale in the middle of Sherlock’s lithe abs until he found the hollow of his navel, and dipped his tongue into it.

All the while, Sherlock seemed to have lost every sense of self-control as he thrust his hips up time and time again, prodding against John’s chest. Another grin crossed John’s lips as he realized that he had silenced the gush of sometimes-vicious words flooding from that enticing mouth. His hand trailed the thin strip of sparse dark hair below the navel down to the base of Sherlock’s cock. Fingers curled around the base, and he lifted his face from the small hollow to have a look at the flushed head, shiny liquid already leaking from it. Curious, his tongue flicked over the slick fluid, the taste salty and sticky.

“John,” his name evaporated in a long exhale, and he lowered his head, slipping his lips around the glans while his tongue drew small circles over the heady skin. Sherlock’s hand left his neck, too amazed by the explosion of sensation, and instead dug his fingers into the bed sheet, hoping to regain some control over his actions. But the attempt remained futile as John hollowed his cheeks and sucked him in. His breath hitched, and small involuntary thrusts met his friend’s rhythmic suction. John placed one hand on the sharp crest of Sherlock’s hipbone to refrain him from pushing in too deeply.

While John rubbed his tongue up and down the shaft, his other hand stroked below the sac, pressing at the perineum to reap another frisson from Sherlock, his erection twitching in his mouth. John looked up, seeing his friend’s ragged breath with his ribcage rising and falling in despair to suck in the necessary oxygen. His finger rubbed further down to meet the dampness only a male Omega could produce there. Carefully, he dipped his finger into the taut muscle, surprised how open Sherlock already was. Heat engulfed his skin as slick fluid eased his way inward. Before long, he crooked his finger a bit, his knowledge of human anatomy helping as he brushed gingerly along the prostate to reap a quivering moan. Then a second finger slipped into Sherlock’s body, stretching the sphincter with slow strokes, repeating the motions while his own cock began to throb painfully.

The stimulation of the hidden tissue and John’s tongue pressing his cock against the palate to increase the friction all of a sudden became too much. “John,” Sherlock squirmed and tugged gently yet persistently at John’s shoulder, asking him to stop and come up to join him again.

John obliged, crawling back onto Sherlock’s heaving stomach. A cooling sweat covered their skin. His hand curled around his friend’s wrist to free the arm from the teeth biting too hard into the flesh, revealing a vulnerable detective, shuddering under each touch from John. “I want to see you.”

Heavy eyelids fluttered open, and a cloudy gaze met John as he lowered his face to steal another kiss, tongues stroking and pressing against each other in a fiery dance. Sherlock’s eyes cleared a little without the over-stimulation of John’s mouth and fingers. His legs came up at John’s sides, bracing his feet on the mattress to find his balance. And before John recognized what had happened, he lay on his back as Sherlock flipped them over, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. The slender man hovered over John, straddling his pelvis. “Better?”

John’s hands rubbed at his friend’s thighs, pressing upward to grip his hips. “Much better.” He returned the grin, marveling at the supple body in front of him, now in a much better view. Although Sherlock’s taller frame pushed John into the mattress, he felt weightless, floating in sensations of utter seduction and happiness.

Sherlock bent forward for another kiss while his hand circled John’s cock behind him, aligning their bodies. When he leaned back again, Sherlock lowered himself onto the flushed head, and John snatched a sharp breath. His mind went blank at the tight heady sensation around his glans. Unconsciously, his hands curled around sharp hipbones in a firm grip, watching Sherlock’s abdominal muscles flexing rhythmically under his controlled breathing as he slipped down. A hand gripped John’s thigh for balance behind his arse, arching his back for more pressure. His lips wavered at the intrusive sensation until he sat on John’s pelvis.

John looked amazed at Sherlock, the alabaster skin tinged with shades of pink from his face down to his sparsely haired chest. His friend rocked a little, shifted his weight back and forth to get accustomed to the intrusion while John saw every muscle, every sinew aroused, flexing beneath pale skin. The sight fueled the heat pooling in his crotch and sent electrifying impulses through his body. His hand came up, fingers splaying against Sherlock’s lean stomach as if he wanted to feel the connection.

After a moment of adjustment, Sherlock began to roll his hips. John bit his lip at the overwhelming sensation as his knot slipped repeatedly in and out of his lover’s body. Each brush created a colorful explosion of oversensitive nerve endings, prompting him to meet Sherlock in his movements.

When a groan born deep in Sherlock’s throat broke the silence in the room, John’s hips snapped up, losing all self-control; he needed to move, to thrust into that delicious damp heat. His hands slid around the flanks to the firm roundness, fingers digging into Sherlock’s arse, cupping his buttocks for support.

Panting, Sherlock leaned forward. His hands sought balance on John’s chest, and he felt a strong heart drumming rapidly beneath his touch as his thumbs trailed the ridges of a heaving ribcage. It wasn’t enough to push him over the edge, but by now John had found the right angle to brush along his prostate with each push, and he couldn’t hold back anymore as deep rumbles bubbled up his throat into wanting moans. Encouraged by Sherlock’s enthusiastic affirmation, John dug his fingers tighter into the firm flesh, aligning Sherlock’s position for longer, deeper thrusts.

He pulled their movements into a lascivious rhythm, the first spikes of arousal pushed aside for the sake of relishing this delicious moment. His eyes sought Sherlock’s face, seeing the same pleasure and vulnerability echoed in their bond, a synchronous pulse vibrating through their chests. It was a catalyst for his own pleasure, realizing that he himself created the detective’s detachment from the world. Usually the man’s agitation kept him constantly on the move, never letting go of his chain of thoughts swirling in his mind, while now his sole focus remained on John.

“God, look at you.“ John marveled at the shuddering sculpture above him. He struggled for words to describe the beauty of what he saw: trembling lips at the sensation of John buried inside him, ragged breaths passing over rosy skin, tiny beads of sweat clinging to his forehead plastering down some unruly curls, and his eyes squeezed shut as he relentlessly rode the waves of pleasure. _Fuck!_ It was then when John realized that his thrust had become sharp erratic stabs, fueling his own imminent orgasm. He gritted his teeth hard, trying to focus and hold back. One hand released Sherlock’s buttock and palmed his shaft, giving him long languid strokes.

At this Sherlock opened his eyes and stilled for a second as the black pools adjusted to find John’s. His hand enveloped John’s, increasing the pressure and pace. John blinked, surprised. He hadn’t noticed that his friend was already on the brink of his own climax.

With Sherlock guiding his hand, he refocused on his own pace, the tendrils of pleasure and desire clinging to his spine, searing electrical pulses through his every nerve. Suddenly a deep groan rumbled in Sherlock’s throat, pressing all the air out of his lungs as he bent forward. His cheek rested on John’s left shoulder, hot breath tickling the scar while his release spurted between their stomachs and trickled over John’s knuckles. Their bellies brushed against each other as they panted. John watched, mesmerized by the most vulnerable moment of Sherlock falling into the deep abyss of utter trust and bliss as the Omega’s climax chased his pale body down again and again to succumb to an all captivating shudder.

The muscle around John clenched and tore him from his observation, his hips snapping involuntarily up at the sensation. With Sherlock, slack from overstraining his body, John needed to balance him, and his slick hand grasped once again his friend’s arse, thrusting up with quick stabs.

After a moment of recuperation Sherlock began to roll his hips in unison to meet each thrust, leaning back again for a better angle. An incredible heat flooded John’s inner core and pooled in his lower abdomen. With the small knot being his final intoxicating barrier, the last thrust lifted his hips into Sherlock and a frisson born of pulsing flashes spiked through his body. John threw his head into Sherlock’s neck as the orgasm washed over him, a groan rolling in his throat as the heat released into his mate.

“Fuck!” Any sophistication was lost as his mind blanked, only the colorful fireworks behind his closed eyes relevant. His muscles slackened just to tense again, shuddering another gush of release, and then again. Sherlock leaned forward to seal their lips and catch those delicious moans. He trailed small kisses down John’s jaw to his scar, the evidence of an old life that he was unsure of how it would have ended if he hadn’t met Sherlock. When the last shiver seared through his pelvis, John raised his head with a hazy mind, biting into Sherlock’s exposed shoulder to stifle his final groan.

A piercing pain flashed through Sherlock as John’s teeth dug and scraped at the soft flesh, yet he didn’t pull away as he waited for John.

“Shit. Sorry.” When consciousness crept back into John’s mind, he unclenched his jaw, a subtle taste of copper lingering on his tongue.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock husked, his voice hoarse with overuse. “It’s part of consummating the bond.”

Despite his friend’s reassurance, John looked uneasy at the red crescent of teeth on alabaster skin. “But I drew blood.”

“I did too.” Sherlock’s finger trailed the mirror image of his own bite into John’s shoulder. Propped on both elbows beside John’s face he lowered his lips once again, tasting the faint remnant of blood – the eternal reminder of an unbreakable bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be May 21st.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	13. Morbus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

Light suffused his mind as it filtered through his eyelids, consciousness whispering back into his body – his heavy body. He creased his brows at the warmth draping over him, the mattress embracing him from below, softer than usual. Only when the thick, sweet scent of swirling pheromones filled his nostrils did John recognize that he hadn’t slept in his own bedroom.

Sherlock’s arm snaked around John’s chest, the pleasant pressure of its weight letting him sense his own heartbeat beneath, drumming in a steady rhythm against the ribcage. Their legs tangled in a mess of duvet and limbs. Blinking off the blurry visions of his sleep, John opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s face beside his own, little puffs of breath tickling at his cheek. A content smile tugged at John’s lips as he watched his friend… his lover… his Omega… sleeping with his chin resting against John’s shoulder. With his facial muscles slack, no one would imagine that those boyish features hid a sharpness that might bring someone to the verge of breaking – aloof, arrogant and cold. But all those attributes evaporated last night under John’s hands into tender kisses, loving caresses, urgent in his need and at last, taking it without shame. The smile turned into a wide grin, one for only John to see in those most private moments, melting under his touches. Or wouldn’t he? The picture of Victor popped into his mind. Surely, Sherlock would refrain now from his backup plan, wouldn’t he?

“Stop thinking,” a hoarse baritone mumbled into John’s shoulder, eyes still closed, but brows folded on the brink of sleep and awakening.

“How could you possibly know that I’m awake?” John huffed a laugh.

“Your elevated heartbeat.” Sherlock turned his face into the pillow as if he wanted to shut out the intrusive sunlight of a bright morning. A deep rumble rolled over his throat in a groan as he stretched the numbness off his limbs.

“You alright?” It didn’t slip John’s attention that his friend winced at his overstrained muscles.

“I’m not that fragile, John.” Sherlock scowled at the presumption of weakness. “I just have sore muscles in my thighs.”

The reproachful gaze of those piercing blue eyes combined with a tousled mess of dark curls on the white pillow stirred a new arousal in John’s crotch. He held his breath, eyes riveting on Sherlock’s luscious lips. A swollen red patch tinted the lower lip from biting too hard, and John couldn’t help, but stroke that alluring pink flesh with his thumb. “Sherlock Holmes, you look completely debauched.”

A giggle bubbled up Sherlock’s throat; the genuineness of a tender compliment spiced with the insinuation of seduction was indeed not his area. John grunted and rolled over his friend, feeling a burgeoning erection against his own. Bending down, he closed his lips around the insolent mouth, stealing that laugh from him. With the edge taken off after their first time together, there remained no lingering urgency crawling up their spines. This would be slow and delicious, and John probed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, stroking in tender caresses.

They kissed for several long minutes, relishing their melded tongues, their tastes. Teeth scraped over sensitive skin, mouths sucked at lips while hands and fingers fondled aroused skin – a sensuous glow burning in their stomachs. Sherlock arched his back at the glorious sensation of John rocking gently against his pelvis. Sherlock’s head pressed into the pillow as he gasped for oxygen. Hands slid down John’s flanks to cup his arse, fingers digging into firm muscles and pushing while John rolled his hips lazily in rhythmic thrusts.

“Sherlock?” John asked when the friction became unbearable, his cock already leaking with the first droplets of desire. He knew that sperm could survive within an Omega’s body up to five days and considering the short timeframe until his friend would consume the last pill he wanted to have his consent. Sherlock didn’t reply vocally, but encircled his long legs around John’s back. His heels dug into his arse while his hands wandered to the crests of his hipbones, pulling him even closer.

John’s fingers stroked to the dampness between the cheeks, astonished at the abundant amount of lubricant produced by Sherlock’s body. “I’m fine.” Sherlock husked, pushing against the invading finger, and John lifted his head to see into sparkling eyes. With a nod he retrieved his hand and aligned his straining erection, but before he could enter the taut muscle Sherlock took up the reins and pushed back.

A surprised gasp escaped him as he fell forward, Sherlock snaking his arms around John’s back, nails scraping over the smooth skin covering the hard ridges of shoulder blades. Encouraged by the pressure of Sherlock’s heels into his arse, John set a lascivious rhythm, enjoying the glorious heat engulfing his length with each languid thrust. For a long while, the only sounds were barely audible sighs and moans. All the time, they never lost eye contact. Four dark pools portraying the endless universe, focused on the bond conveying the eternal play of colors. The sensation was intoxicating, the red glow transforming into a fiery blaze and pooling in their lower abdomens.

Sherlock loosened his grip and cupped John’s neck, dragging him down for another breathtaking kiss. The leisurely pace of their connection mirrored in the slow strokes of their tongues. John had braced himself on his elbows, hands appearing next to Sherlock’s face and playing with some unruly curls. His hips rolled lazily against Sherlock, building ever so slowly the irresistible waves of an all-consuming bliss. The heat threatened to burn them, setting their bodies ablaze until Sherlock met each thrust with the momentum of his own hips. It increased the friction against his cock trapped between their bellies.

John curled his fingers around his friend’s skull and broke the kiss. Instead, his lips trailed the sharp jawline, indulging Sherlock with his tongue licking down his throat to his shoulders. The red crescent of his bite had a purplish hue around the mark. He closed his mouth around the slightly scarred skin and let his tongue brush over the flesh, evoking a throaty groan by Sherlock. It fueled his rhythm, setting a more erratic and swifter pace. Sherlock’s head dropped into the crook of his neck, mouth parted with wavering lips. His back arched into John’s touch, and with a moan he stilled surprised by his sudden orgasm, rippling his body in hot pulses, and warm fluid spurted between their heaving stomachs.

The intensity of the colors exploded behind his closed eyelids as Sherlock’s pleasure reverberated through the bond. It brought John onto the verge of his own climax, crashing waves pushing him over the edge. With a shout, he came violently, a sharp contrast to the sensual intimacy they had just shared. His hips snapped forward and stilled, a shudder overcoming John as his release spilled into the heat of Sherlock. Goose bumps ruffled the skin of his shoulders where Sherlock had dug his nails. Shivers whispered down his spine as his knot slipped past the taut muscle, fueling another gush of semen before the world went blank, and he collapsed onto the taller man.

Panting raggedly, John tried to support his weight, to prevent pressing Sherlock into the mattress, but his effort remained futile, and his friend didn’t complain. After a long while, his heartbeat eased down to a close-to normal rate and he slipped out of Sherlock, rolling onto his back. The cool morning air of the unheated bedroom made his sweat and semen coated body crawl in another wave of goose bumps.

“That was…” John still fought for air, eyes seeking Sherlock. “I think I don’t have any coherent word to describe what we just did.”

“Words are redundant.” Sherlock murmured, voice hoarse from sleep and sex. And indeed they were redundant, John realized as he felt the warmth enveloping his mind, rendering in a red afterglow.

They stayed in bed for another thirty minutes, glued together at their shoulders and arms, their fingers meshed. A sudden grunt born in John’s throat broke the silence of their post-coital drowsiness. “I have a shift today. This afternoon.” John rubbed his hands in his sockets, annoyed. “What time is it?”

Sherlock rolled onto his side to grab his mobile from the nightstand and looked at the clock. “Almost eleven,” he mumbled, frowning at the mobile, buried in thoughts.

“What is it?” John asked, wary. Through the bond he sensed the slight discomfort of his friend.

“Victor has called twice.” A frown knitted his brows together. From the corner of his eyes he saw how John tensed at the mention of the other Alpha.

“Oh,” John pursed his lips in disapproval. That was for sure not a topic he wanted to discuss in the aftermath of lazy morning sex. But what should he say? Of course he wanted to know where he stood. So he kept his eyes glued to the ceiling, his voice betraying a terse edge, “Will you meet him again?”

The unspoken meaning of John’s question conveyed in greenish hues as the hint of jealousy pressed on Sherlock’s chest. He turned his face to glance at John, who still refused to meet his eyes and waited, sorting through his thoughts to swallow the hurt from John’s insinuation and the distrust John was obviously feeling. How could Sherlock blame him? Too many lies, too many betrayals had been involved in his life. “I will meet him once again.” John’s head snapped to the side, locking stormy blue eyes with Sherlock at last. “I have to _withdraw_ my offer. At least he deserves as much, but I think he already knows.”

“What do you mean?” A frown drew deep lines into John’s forehead, suspicion aroused.

“With a consummated mutual bond, any other one-sided bond to one of the involved Alphas or Omegas will be irrevocably broken,” Sherlock explained. “Victor realized that his bond was broken the last night. He’s certainly confused though I think he can put two and two together.”

“Oh,” John’s brows shot up, a mix of embarrassment that Victor actually apprehended what happened between them last night and empathy for the guy who just lost the last straw of hope settled in his stomach with slight unease.

“I’ll call him later,” Sherlock said, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, displaying another luxurious stretch of his lithe body. “I need a shower first.” He looked down his stomach at the dried flakes of his own release clinging to his skin. “Care to join?” His eyes shot John a mischievous look over his shoulder while he padded to the door for the bathroom.

John stretched his limbs, too, groaning in the effort. “I don’t know. Might barely withhold my hands from touching you.” His eyes glistened dangerously at the innuendo.

“That’s the general idea.” A playful smirk tugged at the detective’s lips. “How else could we lather and shower ourselves properly?”

In the end, they ended with exactly what Sherlock had suggested plus his cock in John’s mouth while John’s fist flew over his own length.

While Sherlock needed a little time longer in the bathroom than John to dry his mop of damp curls, John headed for the kitchen. A look at the clock revealed that it was midday by now, and he contemplated whether to make lunch or just a sandwich. Since he wouldn’t have enough time to prepare a proper lunch, he decided on the latter.

When Sherlock appeared from the bathroom clad only in his blue dressing gown, the sandwiches lay on their plates on the kitchen table. John had changed into his clothes for work, already munching his own cheese sandwich. They ate in silence for a moment, Sherlock skimming through his emails on his mobile while John read the newspapers; or at least tried to read. The letters blurred, and the meaning of the words stayed secretive as he couldn’t focus on the article while his mind swirled around another topic.

“What is it?” The baritone tore John from his thoughts.

Of course Sherlock sensed the inner disquiet of his friend – his _Alpha_. “May I ask a question?”

“Sure.” Sherlock sipped at his tea, looking expectantly over the rim of his mug.

“While lathering your back I observed some almost invisible small scars on your back. Where are they from?”

Sherlock eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t looked at his back for quite a while, and he never assumed that his unfortunate encounter with that gaoler left visible evidences carved on his skin; at least the wounds hadn’t needed any stitches. “Um…” he stalled for time, struggling for the best possible answer to not have John freaked out over the truth. “Moriarty had assigned three snipers. I’ve mentioned it shortly once. One for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for you, threatening your lives while he forced me to jump. While Lestrade’s and Mrs. Hudson’s were seized by my brother’s command before I left for Eastern Europe, the location of your’s remained unclear.” He started tactfully, but John’s frown deepened nonetheless, a shocked grimace of horror. “While I dismantled Moriarty’s network over the course of those two years I was imprisoned now and then. Before Mycroft got my out of my last mission I had a – let’s say – very inventive gaoler.”

“You’ve been tortured.” A statement, not a question. John’s mouth parted, sharply sucking the needed oxygen in, his face contorted into a snarl. He couldn’t decide which was worst: Moriarty’s plan to coerce Sherlock into committing suicide or the connotation of torture. Bile rose up his throat, and he swallowed the rising nausea. His eyes darted, panic-fueled, for the sink when a warm hand covered his own on the table, only a whisper of a touch, waiting to see if the gesture was welcomed.

“Be calm,” Sherlock tried to reason his friend, his caress conveying reassurance when John didn’t recoil. “It’s already happened. We cannot change that.” John’s cringed at the failure to protect his Omega – a natural reaction – his body betraying his mind. If he couldn’t calm down, he might react physically with real pain.

John jerked a nod, lips pursed while his nostrils flared. “Moriarty threatened Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and me if you wouldn’t jump?”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to their entwined hands, contemplating why he never fully explained the reason of faking his death to John. _Because_ _Moriarty had to be stopped_. That was all he had said during their first encounter in two years. “Yes.” Sherlock had explained his reason the night before, but deliberately took the edge off it by emphasizing his ambition for the mission to dismantle Moriarty.

“So you jumped to protect us…” His voice dropped to a whisper, adding, “Me?”

“Yes.”

John disentangled their fingers, the ball of his thumb pressing into his sockets in despair. He remembered his anger, his disappointment, and his hurt as he pushed Sherlock to the floor in the restaurant of the Landmark Hotel without recognizing his friend’s ultimate motivation. Tears began to wet his hands. “But you never found the assassin who was assigned to kill me?”

“No.” Sherlock replied, switching into his detective’s meditation mode, and put steepled fingers under his chin. “That was my worst nightmare when Mycroft asked me to return to London – you getting killed despite my efforts. If your assigned killer learned of my being not dead they might fulfill their job at last.” He closed his eyes for a second to swallow the burgeoning fear. “I had Mycroft set extra surveillance on you, but after a few calm months it became quite clear that you were safe.”

“Mary’s an assassin.” John folded his hands on the table, reiterating the unspoken fact about his ex-wife.

Sherlock’s eyes sought John’s reddened eyes. He ought to lie and say that he hadn’t taken Mary into consideration after she had shot him. “Yes. But she didn’t kill you.”

“She tried to kill _you_.” The words spilled faster than Sherlock’s reasoning, betraying his hatred of what she had done to his friend.

“So why are we both still alive?” Sherlock asked retrospectively. “If you were her target per contract, you would be dead by now as well as me. No,” he shook his head, frowning, “I don’t think she’s involved, especially after the divorce which should’ve fueled any motive.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve been wrong,” John said mildly, referring to Appledore, and reaped a sharp look from the detective.

“Of course Mycroft immediately set surveillance on Mary after she shot me.” The reply revealed a reproachful edge. “Since then she hasn’t behaved suspiciously.”

John nodded slowly, accepting his friend’s reassurance, and dodged the uncomfortable subject about Mary. “So you did this all to ensure my safety.” He stood up to retrieve their plates and dumped them into the sink. “Yet, you could have saved _us_ so much pain.” The truth was still nagging at him.

“Either way,” Sherlock cast his eyes down, “I failed.”

At this John whirled around. “Don’t say that,” he emphasized. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Without you everything went to hell. I do understand your fear, the risk behind this bond. But you of all the people should know best that out there, each day, death might await us.“ He gestured to the window with his arm, meaning the world beyond 221B. “We could have died because of the bomb in the carriage below Parliament, or Moriarty’s semtex vest strapped around me. That’s what we do. It’s our Work. _You didn’t fail. I_ failed for not bonding you before.”

Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, sensing the inner turmoil. “You couldn’t bond before because you were never exposed to my natural scent until that night the other Alpha attacked me. That’s where it started.”

“That’s not true. It started the day we first met, you git.” The smirk in his face softened the reproach. “I don’t need a bloody bond to clarify that I’m in love with you.”

A buzz of Sherlock’s mobile declared an incoming email, but he ignored the sound, holding John’s gaze. “Neither do I.”

“Good.” Nodding, John walked over to Sherlock and bent down for a kiss; just a chaste brush of lips on lips because he didn’t want to inflame another arousal. His shift began in less than thirty minutes, and he needed to leave. Reluctantly, he leaned back, his eyes stealing a glance at Sherlock’s mobile, a slight pang of jealousy settling in the pit of his stomach.

“It’s not Victor,” Sherlock replied unasked, the greenish hue getting brighter and brighter.

John smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Can’t help it.”

The detective looked at his mobile, his brows knitting together. “It’s from Lestrade.” He got up to read the message, striding agitated to the living room. “The toxicological report states that Claire was indeed infected with Morbus. They found the virus in her system as well as in the syringe.”

“So someone spiked the heroin with Morbus as you predicted?”

“It’s likely,” Sherlock replied, fear creeping up his spine; not only his own fear. He turned around to face John, whose eyes widened with horror. “Don’t worry. Morbus is a droplet infection, and I wore my gloves all day.”

This reassured John a bit, yet a small risk always remained. “I’ll bring a quick test home from work to test you.”

“That won’t be necessary. I wanted to visit Dr. Gale anyway. She texted me an hour ago that she might have found something which she wanted me to look at. I’ll get the test there.”

John nodded pensively, but then regained his composure and took a deep breath. He headed for the door and shrugged into his jacket. “You know,” he zipped up, sorting his thoughts, “If there’s a pattern and someone’s murdering Omegas, how did they learn about them? Did someone find Dr. Gale’s list or some other doctor’s?”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be a physician. I keep up a worldwide network with other Omegas. Of course, I don’t know them all personally, but for example I heard about the dead Omega in Brighton before I read about her in the newspaper. We use informants – Alpha’s because most of the Omegas are bonded. Only a bonded Alpha can be trusted.”

“But you don’t have an Alpha,” John tossed in, correcting himself at once, “– _didn’t_ , I mean.”

“Mycroft helped me to establish this invaluable network.”

“So you suppose there might be a leak?”

“That’s not what I’m implying.” Sherlock put his mobile onto the desk, crossing the room to John at the door. “There are other physicians worldwide, who treat Omegas like Dr. Gale, but they can’t be considered as the only suspects.”

He reached for John’s scarf, tugging and correcting the knot at the front by instinct. John’s eyes widened at the intimate gesture. He gazed, mesmerized, at the pale vee of Sherlock’s chest in front of him, the creamy skin displaying an esthetic contrast to the blue of the dressing gown. Too much saliva gathered in his mouth and he swallowed. “You’ll text me the results from Dr. Gale?”

“Of course,” Sherlock rasped, only then realizing what he was doing, and a sheepish smile crossed his lips. John’s sudden unwillingness to head for the surgery conveyed through their bond with the small doubt of his ability to leave his Omega behind. A spatial separation even for just a short time or the smallest of distance seemed too much, pulling at him with an invisible force. Sherlock kissed him briefly, and lowered his head to John’s ear, his baritone a deep rumble in his throat, “You really have to go now. And don’t forget to buy condoms when you come home later.”

That broke the spell for John, and he gave a snigger, shaking his head in disbelief. How did Sherlock survive without sex for such a long time? “I won’t,” he promised still smiling, and forced his feet downstairs.

After John had left the flat, Sherlock went to the window to open the case of his violin. He tightened the bow by turning the end screw clockwise and let his fingernail scrape over the hair to check if enough bow rosin was still applied. With the bow prepared, his long fingers curled around the neck in a loving gesture and he set the bow to play, contemplating which composition would fit to his and John’s mood of utter happiness.

He lost track of time, and when he opened his eyes to the last strings of Bach’s Sonata No. 1 in G minor his gaze fell on his buzzing mobile – Victor. Yet more important to Sherlock was the time. The music had filled the flat for over one and a half hour. He put the violin back into the case, untightening the bow. Victor needed to wait, he decided and headed for his bedroom to change into his usual armor of a two-piece suit combined with a black button-down shirt after applying his fake Alpha scent.

On his way downstairs, he shrugged into his coat before stepping outside where everything about John evaporated. His Alpha scent had impregnated 221B, always leaving a bit of John there, something Sherlock clung to, wrapped himself into, making this special address his true home.

He waved a hand to hail a cab, crisp air enveloping him. Once in the black car, he texted Dr. Gale to tell her that he was on his way. For a moment he considered if he should send Victor a message too. Would that be enough to withdraw his offer? Surely his friend could deduce the loss of his bond on his own. After all, the reason he wanted Sherlock to break his bond with John was the fear of losing his own. His gaze drifted to the outside, unfocused. All he had fought so hard for over the last five years was completely in vain. He still sensed the fear surging up in recurring waves, pressing on his chest with a cold grip. Yet it felt so good, representing the dichotomy of his self-awareness. For the first time in his life, he felt complete, not alone anymore – in every possible axis. He bathed in that bright glow of warmth, reddish hues underscoring every breath. This was what Victor had always hoped for, he realized and acknowledged that a single text message just wasn’t enough. He would wait for another call and then see if his old friend wanted to meet with him one last time.

The surgery was empty beside Dr. Gale; no visiting hours in the afternoon as the sign next to the entrance revealed. “Mr. Holmes,” the wiry gynecologist greeted, shaking his hand, “I’m glad you could make it today.”

“My visit isn’t entirely selfless.” He returned the warm yet aloof behavior of the doctor, knowing very well that she didn’t mind. “I’d like you to do a Morbus quick test on me.”

She looked taken aback, “What prompts you to think you might have Morbus?”

“Charlie died yesterday, and her Alpha several days before. Both had Morbus, as has been proved today, and I led the investigations.” He shrugged out of his Belstaff, draping it over his left arm before the doctor guided him to her office. “I just want to be sure.”

“Of course,” Dr. Gale nodded sympathetically and added, “Either way, I wanted to ask you if I might draw another blood sample because I wanted to show you something under the microscope. I’ve always assumed that the sudden decrease of pekosterone was directly related to dopamine not working correctly as a neurotransmitter due to the virus, but I could’ve been wrong.”

“All right,” he consented. The sudden prospect of finding a new lead to a cure raised new hope. He took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his right arm before taking a seat.

“Great,” Dr. Gale flashed a smile, “I’ll get my equipment. Just give me a few minutes. The nurse has already clocked off and nothing’s prepared. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she had closed the door to her laboratory, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed again in his jacket pocket. Retrieving it, the display showed Victor’s name, and he contemplated for a second whether he should answer the call before swiping his thumb over the screen, “Victor.”

“Sherlock?” The Alpha exhaled an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “Thank God. Are you alright? I’ve been trying to call you since this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied curtly, “I just haven’t had the time to answer your calls.”

A short pause implied that Victor was contemplating how to approach the subject. “I… um…” he cleared his tense voice, “I’ve always known where you’ve been or what you’ve felt, but since yesterday evening the visions blurred until I lost you. I was so worried. What happened?”

_He’s feigning ignorance_. “You know what happened.” Sherlock kept his voice even, calm, and not reproachful.

A mirthless laugh echoed through the line, betraying an edge of sarcasm. “No potential in eliciting the truth from the world’s only consulting detective.”

“I’m sorry, Victor.”

“Don’t be. We’re all selfish when it comes to love.” He paused and added, voice thick with anguish. “John’s a lucky man. Though, his Omega must be as devastated as I am right now.”

“His Omega?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not grasping what Victor might be referring to.

“Yes. His wife.”

“She’s an Alpha.” Sherlock corrected, his suddenly elevated pulse calming again.

“What? No,” Victor sounded confused. “We’ve met, and she explained that she was his Omega with a one-sided bond.”

_Why would Mary tell this Victor? More to the point, why would Mary even contact Victor, and how did she learn about him?_ “When and where did she meet you?”

“A couple of weeks ago. After her divorce. She wrote me an email, asking if we could meet.”

_So, Mary wanted to test how deep my relationship was with Victor_. “And then?”

“We met in a café. She sounded desperate over her bond with her ex-husband. Because she knew of my connection to you since school, she asked if I ever perceived how a bond feels. It was an opportunity to finally talk with someone about the bond, and we agreed on so many levels. It also gave me new hope because, since John got divorced you didn’t bond immediately after he moved back in to your flat. I promised to stay in touch with her.”

“When was the last time you’ve contacted her?”

“Today.” His voice sounded thick again, heavy with emotions over his lost hope. “She must’ve sensed it too: the loss of her bond. So I decided to call her.”

_Of course he called her, seeking comfort in a shared fate_. Sherlock’s mind whirled around a solution he couldn’t quite grasp. There was something he missed. Why would Mary be interested in knowing about Victor’s one-sided bond? _No. Not Victor’s bond. John’s bond – our mutual bond_.

Suddenly John’s words ringed in his mind. _If there’s a pattern and someone’s murdering Omegas how did they learn about them? Did someone find Dr. Gale’s list or some other doctor’s?_

“Mary can’t kill Omegas,” he whispered to himself. The call with Victor was all but forgotten. “She’s an Alpha. It’s against her nature even if she wanted to.”

“What do you mean?” Victor couldn’t follow the detective’s chain of thoughts.

“She needs an associate, preferably a Beta,” he mused aloud.

Dr. Gale stood in the door to her office, holding a tray with the needed equipment to draw blood. Sherlock looked at her with knitted eyebrows, the clues tying together like synapses in his brain. His eyes swept over the gynecologist, admitting subtle leads in her poise and appearance.

“Sherlock?” The concerned voice of his friend faded as he dropped his hand to end the call, never averting his eyes from Dr. Gale.

For a moment they just stared at each other, until Dr. Gale drew a sharp intake of breath. “You’re right. An Alpha can’t kill an Omega.” She put the tray onto the desk and turned around, leaning against the table across from Sherlock. Her right hand slipped into the pocket of her white coat, her composure nonchalant yet menacing.

Sherlock tensed in the doctor’s office chair. There was no way out. She blocked every escape route while she literally loomed over him like a predator. His feet braced beneath the chair, straining the muscles of his thighs, ready to push it back if he needed to evade a possible attack. Surely his fear must have reached John by now through their bond, and inwardly he scolded himself for not listening to his friend. John had always suspected Dr. Gale and advised Sherlock to not trust her; a gut feeling not reasoned by logical clues. His search for suppressants had made him blind.

The doctor watched Sherlock as seconds ticked by, but then her expression slipped from curiosity to annoyance. “Of course you want to know the _why_?” She leaned forward, her hand gripping the object inside her pocket. “You’re not usually interested in the motivation of a murder, are you? You just want to solve the puzzle.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and Sherlock bit back a snappy comment. “But once it’s personal, all of a sudden it does matter.”

Straightening her back again, she looked down her nose, eyes sparkling dangerous. When she failed to explain her motive, Sherlock gave in. “So why?”

She huffed with derision, not toward Sherlock but to herself. “It’s as simple as this: I hate Omegas. The whole world worshipped a gender that made Betas redundant.”

For a moment Sherlock forgot his fear, winkling out for the truth. “You don’t hate Omegas. You abhor the world.” His tongue clicked at the last letter, remembering his self-loathing which reflected his hateful perception of the world.

“I had a husband, you know.” She began, ignoring Sherlock’s words, her mouth set to a grim line. “He was an Alpha. We were married for over seventeen years, but I couldn’t conceive – not by biological defect, just the normal Alpha and Beta combination with low fertility. Two years ago he visited me here to pick me up after work. My last patient was an Omega, and they met in the anteroom briefly. But it was enough for my husband to bond with that woman.” Her unfocused eyes went sharp for a second, seeking Sherlock’s before she dwelt on her memories again. “He left me for her, and after one month – _one bloody month_ – she was pregnant.” Her fingers curled relentlessly on the edge of the desk, gripping hard at the wood, but then her expression dissolved into something that resembled relief.

“So you killed them?” It dawned on Sherlock.

“No. Not me.” Dr. Gale shrugged with no sense of guilt. “I got them killed.”

“Mary,” he whispered to himself.

“Who?”

He shook his head. Obviously she ran under another false name. Everything seemed to fit. Dr. Gale hired Mary to assassinate her husband and therefore kill his Omega due to their bond, and now Mary needed the doctor to kill… _Oh!_

His eyes snapped up to Dr. Gale, her hand grabbing again something inside her white coat pocket, staring at him with glacial eyes. The air between them sizzled with tension. Sherlock’s knees and thighs began to hurt due to his overstraining muscles, but he knew he must move now.

The chair flung back against the too close wall, rebounding and bumping into the back of his knee. His knee yielded under the sharp pain and he staggered forward, attempting to find his balance. Too slowly, he pushed himself up, large hands curling around the lean upper arms of the doctor to shove her back with the desk and head for the door.

A sudden pain in his flank made him release his tight grip and look for the origin. Dr. Gale retrieved an empty syringe from his side and let it fall to the tiled floor where the glass burst into tiny shards.

His hands went to the place where the needle had breached his skin through many layers of clothes while the doctor took a step back and watched the detective with wary eyes. His vision began to blur at the edges, and he tried to blink the confusion away. “What’s that?” He slurred, already guessing the answer as every single piece of the puzzle fitted at last.

“A slight sedative with a paralytic effect,” a nasty smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, contorting it into a grimace through his bleary vision. “I need to get away from here now that you blew my cover.” His knees buckled and he fell on his arse, the pain in his coccyx barely a whisper in his consciousness, fogged by the medication while his eyes became heavy-lidded. Dr. Gale’s arms supported his weight, “Careful now. You don’t want to get a concussion, do you?” With deceptively gentle hands she helped him to lie down on the cold floor. “That’s it.” Her smile grew wide and false as she patted his cheek in a contemptuous gesture. Each slap evolved into a rumbling thunder in his head which added to his confusion. He seemed to float in the air, not able to distinguish up and down as everything whirled around him. Then Dr. Gale pushed herself up from the crouch, threatening him with one last stare of her green eyes mingled with yellowish pulsing hues. The synesthesia leapt behind his eyes with an alarmingly bright contrast as he tried to blink the blurriness away. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She stopped at the door, waited for Sherlock to open his screwed shut eyes and look at her. “The sedative was spiked.”

_Obviously_. He closed his heavy eyelids again, not able to stand the terrifying truth, his throat constricting in shock.

“With Morbus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will hopefully be June 4th though I have to say that I’m on a trip for the first week of June. I should have Wi-Fi here and there, but I can’t promise to update on time, so it might get delayed until June 7th or 8th. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	14. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

His patient – a Mrs. Holloway with a tonsillitis – sat across him on the other side of the desk, looking puzzled at the sudden silence of the doctor. When he didn’t even move, paralyzed like a statue, just staring at the computer monitor Mrs. Holloway cleared her voice audibly. “Er… the prescription, Dr. Watson?”

At this John blinked, torn from the sheer amount of fear muffling his mind. “Yes, of course,” he replied confused. He fumbled for the filled in prescription which the printer had already spat out to sign and handed it over to Mrs. Holloway. Luckily, with a tonsillitis his patient didn’t talk too much and after receiving the prescription, she hurried out of his office.

As soon as the door clicked shut, John slumped back into his revolving chair, his hand drifting absent-mindedly to his chest where an erratic pulse let his heart flutter in a throbbing rhythm. Fear blocked his every nerves and a cold sweat accumulated on his forehead, tiny beads prompting his skin to ripple with goose bumps, each upright hair leaving a physical tenseness. Shivers crawled up and down his spine when he also sensed the blurred pain. But most prominent was the all-consuming _yellow_ fear.

Trembling fingers reached for his mouth as he exhaled shaky breaths puffing against the pads. He tried to reason with himself, coaxing his mind to believe that he was overreacting; that whatever the bond conveyed right now needn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock was in a dangerous plight. Maybe his Alpha nature ran wild at the feelings of his Omega. Although Sherlock would never admit it, the detective had a slight aversion to spiders… John huffed a small yet nervous laugh. Or maybe Sherlock just reacted to having a scare.

_But why pain?_

John waited without pressing the button of his intercom for the next patient. Minutes passed as he focused on breathing evenly, attempting to calm his nerves. But the fear didn’t subside.

Nausea settled in his stomach, intensifying the already queasy feeling as his breathing became shallow. All of a sudden, the walls of his office seemed to tumble down, making the room impossibly narrow and dense, pressing the oxygen out of his lungs. With a jolt he stood up, crossing the room for the sink. Bracing his hands at the edges, he hunched his shoulders and started to dry-heave – once, twice, thrice until he drew a deep breath in, another futile attempt to allay his nerves. He turned off the water and rinsed his mouth as the nurse appeared at the door, concerned about John not having called for the next patient yet.

“I… er…” he straightened his back, looking apologetically at his colleague, “I think I’m sick. Would you please cancel my other appointments?”

The nurse looked crestfallen, but nodded. John retrieved his jacket from the hanger of his closet, swallowing a fresh wave of nausea as he shrugged into it. After crossing the room to his desk, he produced his brown briefcase from under the table and hung it over his shoulder. He clasped the leather under his arm, well aware of the Sig between several sheets of medical research and bills he still had to pay.

Bidding his goodbye to his colleagues, he darted for the exit. When the brisk afternoon air hit his lungs, his head cleared a bit, and the nausea receded to a rather uneasy feeling. For a moment he stood there, ruminating what to do next. With a deep breath he focused on his instinct, closing his eyes and beginning to trust his nature.

John sensed the sharp pull like an interwoven thread making his legs move on their own. Even if he’d wanted to he couldn’t walk in the opposite direction as Sherlock’s gravity yanked forcefully at him, showing John the route to find his mate. In his mind’s eye, he tried to locate the cardinal direction of where his lover had clearly encountered difficulties – north east. He consulted his mobile to see what might lay in that direction, and as he scrolled through the locations the scales fell from his eyes. Before he left 221B Sherlock had mentioned that he wanted to visit Dr. Gale at her surgery. He cursed under his breath for his ignorance when he saw a black car approaching and raised his hand to hail the cab.

In the car, thousands of thoughts flipped through his imagination like pages of a book, but he came to no reasonable conclusion as to why Sherlock was so terrified. Maybe it had something to do with Dr. Gale? Or the murderer of those Omegas? He didn’t want to combine the two questions and deduce the inevitable reality. A new wave of nausea crashed against him, constricted his throat and let the blood drain from his hands and feet, leaving them cold and sweaty. His own fear threatened to overcome him in a moment where Sherlock needed him most. A high-pitched buzzing sound pressed in his ears.

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the surgery. John paid the cabbie, already sensing the invisible force wrenching at his whole being. His body started to ache at every movement as the colors had got brighter and the gravitation stronger.

The front door to the surgery was locked, but he could definitely sense Sherlock behind the barrier: his breathing, his heartbeat, his mind. “Sherlock,” he rapped at the door with his fist. Another firm push at the brazen handle combined with a slam of his right shoulder against the massive door let him realize that he wouldn’t get into the surgery with force. His mind raced and he needed to concentrate to sort his thoughts. He pinched the bridge of his nose, Sherlock’s fear washing over him again and again making it hard to focus. Then he remembered Sherlock’s Christmas present, and his hand dug into his jacket pocket to fish out his key ring. There wasn’t only attached his key from 221B, but also a picklock.

Throughout their friendship, John had learned a thing or two by observing the detective on how to gain access to locked buildings without leaving signs of forced entry. He looked over his shoulder, wary of any curious glances. Dr. Gale’s surgery was located in a residential district, and only a few people walked by. So he set the tool into the lock and after a minute he could push the door open.

Sniffing, John tried to find Sherlock with his olfactory sense, but his nose barely filled with Sherlock’s fake Alpha scent. Sherlock’s natural Omega fragrance would make him able to find him in less than a second, John thought ruefully. He closed the door and put the briefcase down after retrieving his Sig. The cold metal weighed effortlessly in his dominant hand as his eyes scanned the hallway, his muscles tensed as he walked with deliberate steps toward the registration desk. His hand hovered over the cool computer, indicating that the nurses had already clocked out a while ago. His eyes roamed to the empty anteroom, shooting it a cursory glance through the window paneled wall. To the right of the registration desk were three doors, all closed, as well as to the left. John had to fight the urge to just call for Sherlock. Fear and pain clouded his brilliant mind, and if John deduced it correctly someone might have threatened or even attacked him. And John didn’t know whether that _someone_ was still in the surgery.

He flexed his left hand, unclenching and curling his fingers in a tight grip around the butt of his gun, deciding to check Dr. Gale’s office first. There he sensed Sherlock’s presence the most. The Sig appeared next to his face as he pressed his right ear to the door in the hope of catching any snippet of what might be going on behind the solid wood. But like the rest of the surgery, nothing betrayed the cause of the vivid fear, beset with dead silence which made the rushing flood of his own blood unbearably loud.

His hand pushed the handle down and shoved the door ajar, risking a glimpse into the room until he bumped into an obstacle. John craned his neck and looked down to find a black leather shoe blocking the entrance. His heart skipped a beat, and his stomach dropped at the sight. Careful to not open the door any further and hurt his friend, John slipped past the barrier and fell to his knees beside Sherlock the second he entered the room.

“Jesus,” he breathed, examining his friend’s body with a sweep of his eyes. Sherlock had no obvious injuries as he found no blood or visible bruises. Then John scolded himself for being so careless as to neglect completely checking on the office, including its adjacent treatment room. He forced himself up again despite his reluctance to leave Sherlock’s side for even one second. The office looked neat, only the tray with equipment for drawing blood left on the desk implied that Dr. Gale had departed in a hurry. With his gun at the ready, John stole into the treatment room, but it was empty as he had predicted – like the rest of surgery. With nothing out of place and no other signs of forced entry, he ruled out burglary. The suspicion narrowed more and more down to Dr. Gale.

When he knelt down again John put the gun next to Sherlock’s head. His hand gently cupped Sherlock’s face, searching for the pulse throbbing in the carotid as it pumped the adrenaline enriched blood through the artery.

“Sherlock?” He spoke with a low voice, his face near Sherlock’s ear. As he couldn’t see any visible evidence of physical assault, John was at a loss. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered half-open in the effort to focus on the origin of the voice, pupils dilated and lips wavering as if he wanted to answer. But John only received a choked grunt. _So he’s conscious_. John observed. Whatever had happened, someone must have shut him up with a paralytic, not a narcotic, he concluded as he detected on the other side of Sherlock’s body a few tiny shards of glass and the needle of a syringe. It reminded him of the Guy Fawkes Night where Magnussen had John have abducted to put him into the bonfire. “Sherlock, who did this to you? Was that Dr. Gale?”

After a moment of concentration an almost imperceptible nod ducked the chin of the detective.

“Is she still here?” Every muscle tensed at the acknowledgement that the gynecologist was involved in the Omega murders as he had supposed from the beginning.

This time Sherlock shook his head, or it seemed so as it rolled to his left shoulder with a groan. John watched with intense eyes as Sherlock fought his way back into full consciousness. Pressing his lips into a grim line, John contemplated his next steps. Should he call Lestrade? The DI was working on the case, involving the deaths of at least two Omegas and two Alphas. But that also meant exposing Sherlock’s true gender. He trusted Greg to keep the secret, but his division didn’t just include the DI, and certainly Sally Donovan wouldn’t button up her lips.

Mycroft then? But the last time he had involved the older Holmes brother, it had ended in another disagreement between them, even though his help was unavoidable. He chewed on his bottom lip while weighing the possibilities. From the moment he perceived the first shock of fear and pain to now, at least forty minutes must have ticked away as he checked his wristwatch. By now the paralytic should be fading gradually, and John decided to wait until Sherlock would move on his own again, so they could leave in a taxi.

“I’ll call a cab for later,” he explained, producing his mobile to dial the number.

After finishing the call, he knelt behind Sherlock, lifting his head and placed it tenderly on his knees. He stroked an unruly curl off Sherlock’s brow while John’s heart returned to a normal pace. The pain conveying through their bond faded, yet the crashing current of fear rebounded like tidal waves. His fingers drew small circles at Sherlock’s temples in the hope to soothe his inner turmoil. After a while the detective’s hand came up, still trembling with the effort, but John interlaced their fingers and led it to his mouth to place a lingering kiss. A weak squeeze by Sherlock gave reassurance that John soon would get answers to his lurking questions.

They waited another thirty minutes until Sherlock’s enunciation returned although his still too heavy tongue slowed his otherwise rapid fire speaking considerably down. “Let’s get out of here,” Sherlock cleared his voice and propped himself onto his elbow, pushing his body up.

John helped him, putting an arm around his waist and Sherlock flinched. “So she rammed the syringe into your left waist?”

“Below the ribs,” Sherlock elucidated, adjusting John’s arm to take the pressure off the puncture and bracing his weight onto the compact structure of his friend. Before they headed for the hallway, Sherlock pointed his chin to Dr. Gale’s desk, “Take the equipment along.”

John remembered that Sherlock wanted to have his blood tested for the virus, but obviously he hadn’t gotten that far. His hand reached for the two plastic bags with cannula and a PAXgene tube along with a small bottle containing a chemical composition for a blood analysis and slid them into his jacket pocket.

With wobbly knees Sherlock steadied his weight on John, who led him to the front door. On their way he scooped up his briefcase and tucked his Sig back into the leather bag. The cab was already waiting outside as they walked as normal as possible to not catch any unwelcome eye.

During their drive, Sherlock avoided glancing at John, evading unasked questions he couldn’t answer in public. His eyes rambled to the outside world, gray and dull with a sun setting for the evening. He felt John’s curious gaze upon him and his chin wavered at the never fading fear. But first he needed to perform the blood test to be sure of what Dr. Gale had said. Replaying the scene over and over again in his mind, the numbness vanished entirely as his consciousness returned with its full force and fury as well as regret mingled with his terrifying fear.

“Sherlock?”

John’s low voice sounded too worried for the detective’s taste and he cut off his friend. “Not here.”

Forty eternal minutes later, the normally short trip stretched too long by rush hour traffic, they arrived at 221B. While Sherlock darted for the black front door, John paid the cabbie, cursing under his breath at what might have prompted the sudden frustration in his friend.

John hurried after his friend, climbing the seventeen steps as he already heard the clinking of the glassware Sherlock used for his makeshift laboratory. In the doorframe he watched how Sherlock placed his microscope onto the kitchen table, frowning and ignoring the questioning look of his friend.

“I need you to draw a blood sample.” He said, shrugging out of his Belstaff along with his suit jacket and tossing them carelessly over a kitchen chair. When John didn’t move Sherlock finally locked his eyes with John’s, the glacial blue emphasized by arching demanding eyebrows. “Now!”

A slight pang of anger flushed John at Sherlock’s command, yet he crossed the kitchen, rounding the table and shedding his jacket too. “Tell me what happened.”

The irritation normally reserved for people too slow to follow his train of thought, rose within Sherlock. This was not the time for explanations. First he must know if Dr. Gale told him the truth. John should trust him with this if not anything else. “The paralytic was spiked with Morbus,” he mumbled, nauseated by his own frustration as well as John’s stubbornness.

“Wha –“ John’s concerned expression slipped into a mask of sheer incredulity, blood rushing from his face, his wan pallor emphasized by the brown of his cardigan. His eyes widened as the words echoed over and over again in his mind, his sight narrowing down into tunnel vision. Sherlock held out his bare arm for John to be the doctor he needed right now. He blinked helplessly as the detective continued explaining, but the pressure in his ears had increased and hushed the world’s sounds.

“John,” a warm hand startled him, drawing him back to Sherlock as it cupped his face. The detective’s voice suddenly soft and gentle as he realized the shock his words had provoked. “Dr. Gale may have made an idle threat. As long as we don’t have the results, nothing’s sure.” He tried a reassuring smile, but failed as he recognized his shallow voice.

Yet he got John’s attention, their eyes meeting in understanding. John swallowed his fear, pushing it back to the farthest corner of his mind because right now they needed each other, they needed a clear mind, and then they needed a solution.

So he rushed to the bathroom to fetch the disinfectant and repeat the procedure he conducted a couple of weeks ago in Dr. Gale’s surgery. It seemed like ages ago – too many things had happened. He vividly remembered what the gynecologist had told him back then; that his acting as Sherlock’s Alpha was too bad to convince her. His lips pressed to a thin line at the memory, the corners slightly tilted downwards. He had suspected Dr. Gale from the beginning, not because he held some deductive skills like his friend, but because of a feeling – his instinct fueled by his trust issues. While Sherlock was blinded by finding a solution to his predicament he remained oblivious of the criminal nature behind that woman. It was understandable. But not John’s failure – not only the circumstances of their first meeting with the gynecologist, but also his failure today of letting Sherlock step into the lion’s den, albeit he never trusted that doctor. He bit his lower lip hard, chastising himself for being such a miserable Alpha.

“It’s not your fault.” Sherlock spoke up as if he had read John’s mind, hand coming up and his thumb releasing John’s lip from the torture of his teeth, stroking tenderly over the swollen reddish mark.

John huffed a mirthless laugh, aware of the irony. “The first day as your Alpha and I fail to protect you.”

“How could you know?” Came the rhetorical question. “Don’t punish yourself when a perpetrator has brought this on us.” He took the small tube filled with his blood from John’s hand and pipetted a droplet into a petri dish. Adding the chemical composition, the blood tinged black. Sherlock drew a black droplet for a slide to put it under the microscope.

“Isn’t it too early to do the test?” John asked. “I mean if you were only just infected two hours ago?”

Sherlock slid the glass under the light, his eyes lowering to the oculars. “No, the virus has a sudden impact on the hormones in my blood and therefore is immediately traceable.”

In the end, it didn’t even take a minute for Sherlock to come to a conclusion. His stomach convulsed into a tight knot, a fresh wave of nausea manifesting. His pulse raced uncontrollably and made it hard for him to breathe. He couldn’t raise his eyes from the oculars, couldn’t straighten his back and look at John. The concurrent validity cut too deep to see the horror plunging into his friend’s features, an unbearable contortion of agony and panic.

Of course the results didn’t stay concealed due to the bond. Sherlock’s terror, hurt, fear and regret all made his heart pound in his throat. John closed his eyes for a long moment, pumping his breath through flaring nostrils. His head shook in refusal. Pictures of the dead Omegas popped into his darkened mind – the pregnant Mrs. Miller and the distorted body of Charlie; the Omegas reported in the news notwithstanding. Not only visualizing their pictures in his turmoil, but also their suffering, enduring several days of fighting anguish until their bodies succumbed to a disease no Omega had ever survived, ending as rotting corpses whose stench made any Alpha’s stomach roil.

He was still shaking his head as he opened his eyes, watching Sherlock’s eyes illuminated by his microscope’s oculars and turned into a mercurial stare. The detective raked his hands into his mop of curls, gripping at strands and plucking at them, distraught, while his elbows were propped on the table, the glassware clinking softly at the movement. Despair engulfed John, conveyed through their bond as he witnessed Sherlock, forlorn and helpless against a fate he had always feared and wanted to protect John against.

“I refuse to believe that.” John forced his vocal chords to work with a strained voice.

Sherlock blinked at the stubbornness, anger seething under the surface. John was always faithful, believed in Sherlock even when the whole world turned against him and pointed with its nasty finger at him, calling him a fraud. But the only time where Sherlock truly failed, John refused to believe in the sole truth. “That doesn’t help us,” he snapped, finally locking his narrowed eyes with John’s, detecting the tears stinging in the dark blue ocean. He regretted his remark in the very same second, swallowing the bile in his throat at his own cold-heartedness.

John had stumbled backwards to the kitchen counter, his hands gripping hard at the edge to keep himself upright. He knew Sherlock’s sharpness betrayed the stress of this debacle, divulging his well-sealed vulnerability. The gap between them seemed insurmountable at the moment. On the one hand he craved the warmth of Sherlock’s touch, but on the other hand he feared he would break under the comforting caress. He pursed his lips, a single tear dropping from his lashes. “You can throw all your stinging cruelty against me, yet you’ll never convince me to give up on you – to lose a battle – because you always find a way.” His voice shook with emotional tremors.

“This is not a fake, John.” Sherlock attempted to reason his friend, his voice calm again, almost pleading to not cling to false hope. “This is reality. And the only way to solve _this_ directs us to the question of how we can ensure _you_ to survive.” _This –_ he couldn’t even name it.

“I don’t _care_ if I survive.” He shouted angrily because once again Sherlock was ignoring his wishes; John didn’t want a solution for himself but for _them_. Sometimes, to find the right answer it just needed a change of the perspective of thinking, so that Sherlock’s solution could run congruent with John’s. He didn’t want an opportunity to make a decision taken away, yet again. “I survived once, and my life turned into hell. No,” he emphasized, his chin lifted in defiance. “We will find a way for _you_ to survive. So that _we_ can survive.” His eyes cleared as he sensed the immense amount of love whispering in an unspoken gush over John, making his skin tingle with warmth. “That’s what we do, right?” John took up what Sherlock more than once in their friendship had stressed, feeling the admiration and optimism to embolden the detective. “Solving cases? And now we’ll solve yours.”

Stunned, Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, his heart wrenching at the honest faith laid bare by his Alpha and he nodded slowly. At this, John crossed the short distance between them. He fell to his knees, twining his arms around Sherlock’s waist in a desperate embrace and burying his face into the silken fabric of his shirt. Breathing hot air onto Sherlock’s stomach, he sensed the swelling and falling against his cheek as it turned into an even rhythm. It had a calming effect. He also realized the shift in Sherlock’s natural scent beneath the button-down, and John pressed his nose even tighter against the flat planes, inhaling deeply as it supported him in regaining control over his mind. Sherlock’s arms encircled John’s shoulders, reciprocating the need for comfort. His face rested in the graying honey colored hair, the ends tickling his lips as he brushed kisses on John’s crown.

They held each other for a while, listening to their mutual heartbeats becoming one in a soothing manner. Sherlock had kissing John’s hair and nestled his cheek onto the softness. A deep intake of breath implied that he wanted to say something, but he struggled for the words while John waited patiently, eyes still closed. “I’ve once read an article about experiments delaying the disease. The uncontrollable high fever causes in most cases febrile seizures which results in the Omegas’ death. If not for the seizures, they die of the sepsis induced by the virus. My upcoming heat might hold up the symptoms along with the Morbus fever because it naturally increases my hormone level, counteracting the virus’ sudden decrease.” He paused as John disentangled his arms to sit back on his heels, his look a storm of worry. “It might give us extra time to find a solution.” He pointed out to soften the horror of his words.

“We could also include Mike Stamford,” John proposed. “He might be able to procure synthesized pekosterone which buys us two additional months. Plus, he has a profound knowledge about Omegas. His help would be invaluable.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze, weighing his suggestion, and nodded his agreement. “All right.”

“I’ll call him later,” John decided. “But first I want to know, what exactly happened in the surgery.” A new flash of anger flared behind the dark blue of John’s eyes – the hate toward Dr. Gale salient as he sensed the tickle of vengeance crawling under his skin, itching his every nerve.

“Apparently, Dr. Gale is behind the recent murders of Omegas and occasionally their Alphas, at least in London and its immediate vicinity. She confessed that she had her Alpha husband killed because he left her for an Omega. They bonded, and therefore his Omega died too.” Pursing his lips, he remembered Victor’s call, “I assume she hired a killer to get rid of her husband. She didn’t confirm a name, but I’m quite sure it was Mary.”

At this John tensed, dislodging himself from Sherlock to take a seat on the abandoned kitchen chair. “What makes you believe that?”

“Victor,” Sherlock explained, at once seeing the greenish tiles from the wall pulsing from the corner of his eyes. “He called me again because of the loss of his bond and told me that Mary had contacted him, pretending to be your Omega ex-wife.”

A frown drew deep lines into John’s forehead. “Why would she do that?”

“To obtain information about his bond: she claimed to have a one-sided bond with you, so they could share a secret and comfort themselves. He called her when the loss of his bond became definite, and she learned that we must have bonded at last.”

“You mean she used Dr. Gale to gain your trust and Dr. Gale repaid Mary by infecting you with Morbus?” John concluded, uncertain.

“That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Sherlock put steepled fingers in front of his mouth, weighing her motives.

“But if she worked for Moriarty as you pointed out, her target was me, not you?”

“Maybe she had two targets. I might be wrong though, but Moriarty was clever. He probably expected me to fake my death. So, just in case, he paid her for two assassinations.” His fingers slid down to his chin, resting there while he turned the pieces over and over again in his mind.

“But why didn’t she kill us the instant you returned? Why the wait?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock conceded, his eyes sweeping over John. “Maybe she really fell in love with you. And with Moriarty dead, who would have cared about two unfinished jobs?”

“And then I left her.” John’s gaze turned absorbed in memories of an unpleasant past, emphasizing the psychopathic tendencies of his ex-wife.

“Yes, but there’s one thing that’s bothering me,” Sherlock declared, looking into John’s quizzical eyes. “Who initiated the murders of the other Omegas worldwide? That’s certainly not Dr. Gale’s doing.”

“You think there’s more to it with Mary?”

“Moriarty’s network was vast, and if Mary took part in it, or even still takes part, she might have a hand in the murders as well.” John’s stare hardened at the prospect of his ex-wife being involved in such horrible homicides. He had never read the memory stick, afraid that his love he once felt for her would turn into hate. Yet now he realized the lie he had told himself at Christmas in Sherlock’s parent’s home. He was just too much of a coward to acknowledge it at that time. But if Sherlock was right with his assumption of Mary having killed Omegas worldwide, his long lost bitterness turned into venomous loathing now. His nostrils flared in a fury while his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“So we have a plan.” John’s stormy blue sparkled dangerously. “Not only will we find a cure, but we’ll also find Dr. Gale in order to lure Mary out and stop the homicides.” His head jerked in a determined nod, and he got up to retrieve his mobile from his jacket pocket to give Mike Stamford a call. Before dialing the number he stopped in the doorframe to the living room, his expression pensive. “Perhaps it’d be helpful to also include Greg or Mycroft to track Dr. Gale down?”

“Mycroft is out of the question,” Sherlock clenched his jaw. “He’ll put two and two together, and if he finds out that I got infected, he’ll lock me away in his house and probably threaten the most prestigious virologists to have them try and treat me. That’s not an option.”

“Greg then?” John asked when Sherlock’s reply didn’t rule out the DI. “He needn’t know about your gender because he’s already involved in the case. You just need to nudge him into the right direction to blaze the trail.”

Sherlock gave a contemplative nod, equally reaching for his mobile in the inside pocket of the Belstaff. “I call Lestrade, and you phone Mike.” His cheeks tinted in pink hues, yet his mouth pressed into a thin line, the prospect of someone else knowing about his secret disconcerted him.

Scrolling through his contact list, John tapped the small symbol of a receiver and headed for the sofa in order to not disturb Sherlock’s own phone call. Sherlock’s queasy feeling about involving Mike rubbed off on John, save that he was more concerned about his friend’s medical license than his loyalty. He trusted Mike.

“John?”

“Hello Mike,” John sounded remorseful because lately he only spoke with his old friend when he needed his help. “You got a minute?”

“Five actually,” he heard Mike huff a small laugh. “I’m on my way to my students. What is it?”

“Well, I… er, _we_ might need your help.”

“You mean you and Sherlock?” Mike asked with a hint of doubt.

“Mainly Sherlock,” John lowered his voice, a sudden fear of being intercepted creeping up his spine. “Mike, this is essential because you’re my oldest friend and I trust you, but I need what I say now to be strictly confidential.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching as John waited for a confirmation. “Of course you can trust me. My lips are sealed.”

Despite the assurance, John held his breath, still struggling to reveal the truth before blurting out, “Sherlock is an Omega.” He listened to Mike inhaling a sharp breath and resumed after a moment to let the information sink in. “And he’s been infected with Morbus just a few hours ago. We need synthesized pekosterone, and you’re the only one who might procure it for us.” It took all his self-restraint to let his voice sound even and not desperate, but he couldn’t help it as he added, “Please.”

Hesitation hushed on the other end, and John listened to Mike’s labored breathing from walking through the labyrinth of St. Bart’s. “God,” he husked at last. “I’m so sorry, John.”

John closed his eyes, suppressing the sudden urge to give in to his emotional turmoil and let the poignant burden crush him. His throat made a clicking noise as he swallowed. As much as he liked Mike, right now he couldn’t stand his pity. He wanted a solution. So he swallowed again, and with it his burning distress to ask with a terse voice, “Can you help us?”

“Yes, but I need some time to get everything.” There was a short pause as Mike compiled a mental list. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon when my shift’s over. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” John exhaled in relief. “Also, you might want to have a look at Sherlock’s own research. We’d appreciate any second opinion finding a clue to eradicate the virus.”

Another long silence stretched between them, speaking volumes about Mike’s concern. But he wouldn’t dash John’s determination, so he said, “All right. I see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks Mike.”

When he rang off, Sherlock came into the living room, ending his own phone call. “Lestrade will call me when he finds a lead to Dr. Gale’s possible hideout. I explained him that Charlie was also connected to her.” He crossed the room to open his laptop on the desk. “Sometimes he really annoys me – emphasizes too much onto what I deduced several weeks ago when I told him that she wasn’t involved in the murders while now I’m trying to convince him that she indeed is.”

“You can so rarely be proved wrong.” John shrugged with a pointed look, changing the sensitive topic. “Mike will drop by tomorrow after his work when he has gathered all he needs.”

Sherlock nodded, yet his face was scrunched up. “I hate waiting,” he declared, his body tense and ready to plunge into work.

So John took the seat across from him, opening his own laptop. “Shoot Mike and me your research.” John also needed something to do; to occupy his racing mind and stop him from running into a dead end where only despair awaited him.

It wasn’t until shortly before midnight when John gave up. Too tired to carry on, the letters on the screen of his laptop blurred into black lines as he compared Sherlock’s research with Dr. Gale’s results. He glanced up to find Sherlock still focused on following any hint, any lead, anything that might help them find the so long missing clue. The light radiating from his laptop highlighted his usual pallor, and John caught himself sweeping his eyes over the Omega’s features, looking for the first signs of symptoms even though he knew that it was too early for that.

At the sudden gush of worry, Sherlock raised his mercurial eyes. “I’m fine,” his baritone rasped from hours of disuse.

Had it not been for their situation, John would have marveled at his lover’s beauty – his creamy skin carved from marble in the dim light – instead of looking for any hints of illness. He sighed and closed his laptop. “I’m off to bed.”

“I’m following any minute,” Sherlock mumbled, shredding any doubt of John to wonder if he would be welcomed to Sherlock’s bedroom again. Grateful, John walked to his side and kissed his crown, soft curls tickling his skin.

After a detour to his own bedroom to retrieve fresh pajamas, he headed for the bathroom, brushing his teeth and checking on the faint stubble on his cheeks and chin to decide that a shave could wait until morning. He left the bathroom door leading to Sherlock’s bedroom open, the mess from this morning still prominent. A sigh breathed over his lips as he remembered the intimate beauty of their love, a slight blush painting his cheeks pink. He rearranged the duvet and piled the pillows against the headboard, adjusting and stretching the sheet by doing so.

Once he laid down, his eyes focused on the shadows against the ceiling, moving now and again as cars passed on the street below. He felt his heart clench as his mind and body stilled. Memories of the day replayed too vividly and mingled with a gruesome imagination. He pressed his hands to his sockets in the hope of making the daunting pictures fade away when he heard Sherlock shuffle into the bathroom. After flushing the toilet, the light through the glass door went black, and Sherlock stepped into the room, stripped naked aside from his black pants. He walked over to his closet. John’s mouth filled with too much saliva the moment Sherlock shed his pants and shimmied into the pajama bottoms.

The mattress dipped under the weight as he crawled under the duvet, collapsing beside John. He nestled closer, aligning his front along John’s side, his left leg curling around John’s. His left arm ghosted over John’s chest, sensing the heat radiating from under the t-shirt’s fabric as he searched for the strong drum of the heartbeat, his hand splaying over the hard ridge of John’s sternum – the very center of his life… of their lives.

“I love you.”

John’s hand came up to cover Sherlock’s, his thumb stroking tenderly over knuckles. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be June 18th.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	15. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

Warmth draped his torso. Smooth skin pressed against his neck and shoulder, and he was at absolute peace. Sweet drowsiness still clung to his body, making his limbs deliciously heavy while he enjoyed the silkiness of the mattress embracing his weight.

John reveled in that moment of utter bliss – the moment on the verge of sleeping and waking. The breathing of Sherlock, lying half across his chest with his face nestled in the crook between neck and shoulder, betrayed a deep rhythm. A faint light invaded through his still closed eyelids, eliciting a colorful explosion. John couldn’t yet assign each color to each emotion, but self-confidence whispered up his spine as snug tendrils entwined his every nerves, flooding him with a burning crimson. Stretching his back to spread those glorious tendrils, he chased away the stiffness of slumber and replaced it with the heat radiating from Sherlock like the sun. He realized the lost endeavor of trying to prolong the felicity and sensed the sweet spirit superseding the grip of sleepiness. But to slip into consciousness with his Omega nestled that close, he had to relinquish a beautiful dream.

And then the moment passed. John wanted to grip it, to hold tight on it, but it slipped through his fingers like tiny sand grains in an hour glass. His breathing accelerated at the harsh pang of reality that swamped his conscious mind – the glow all but gone.

Slowly he opened the lids, blurry visions of an overcast morning intruding on his dark blue eyes to sparkle like thousands of tiny stars. He blinked several times, shaking off the last clasp of sleep. All it left behind was the stale aftertaste of an abstract illusion, now turned into an all-consuming fear. A feeling he could only conquer in his dreams. But reality showed its sharp claws once again, ripping pieces of metaphorical flesh from his mind as he sensed the panic rise.

Unconsciously, Sherlock’s arm tightened around John’s torso. The gesture snapped John back from his nature’s sinister grip. His eyes roamed to Sherlock’s boyish features, the mop of curls obscuring most of his view from above, but according to his deep breathing the Omega was still sound asleep. He must have sensed the inner turmoil looming in John even though he still clung to the surreal world of oblivion. The air swirled with pheromones set free and provoked not just an ease for John, but a stirring arousal. He swore under his breath at his body for betraying him despite their terrifying circumstances.

His forearm, snaked beneath Sherlock’s torso, came up. Fingers brushed along the small notches of his spine, tracing the distinct pattern of a fragile physique which proclaimed more than often a lithe strength. Sherlock stirred slightly under the ticklish touch and tilted his head so that some errant curls dropped back. With intense eyes John searched for any hints of uneasiness, any evidence of the fatal disease like he had been looking for the evening before. He tried to remember when the first symptoms of Morbus should appear.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, pupils contracting at the intruding light. He blinked at John, sleep still fogging his pale blue like a veil. Apparently, John had awoken him with the sweep of his fingers. Goose bumps rippled along the pale slender frame, and John tugged the duvet up to cover his friend’s bare shoulder. Sherlock’s vision stayed focus on John’s worried expression. The Alpha averted his eyes concerned that his gaze might convey his repressed fear. But irony betrayed him as his feelings bled through the bond to Sherlock.

“The first symptoms start on the fourth day – a slight fever which will skyrocket within those first twenty four hours. It causes excruciating pain in the limbs to the point of paralysis. Febrile seizures don’t usually occur until the sixth or seventh day.”

The blunt description of the progress still shocked John. He wasn’t quite sure if the horror stemmed from Sherlock’s clinical tone or the terrifying prospect of the disease’s symptoms. “But your heat will overlap and delay the fever?”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s hand moved from John’s chest and cupped his chin, thumb circling soothing strokes against his stubbly cheek. “So please stop looking at me like that.”

John drew a sharp breath as Sherlock braced himself on his elbow, bringing his face to the same level as John’s to lock piercing eyes with him. For a long moment, they stared into each other’s souls until John nodded at last. He understood Sherlock’s meaning: his friend spurned pity – he wanted John as a constant strength and not a persistent reminder of an unsecure future. A vague smile, hinting at reassurance, tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s lips as he lowered his head to close his mouth over John’s. It was timid, careful and uncertain in the whirl of their inner turmoil. But Sherlock broke the spell, his nature releasing his undisguised scent of an Omega. The fragrance swiftly filled John’s nose, assuaging his concern, pushing him to reciprocate and release his own cocktail of hormones like yin and yang complementing each other. Colors undulated in their unspoken consent, and Sherlock probed his tongue past John’s lips and teeth to melt with the other tongue.

They kissed for several delicious minutes, drowning in sensation of pure bliss where awakening likewise kissed away dreamy sleep. Forgotten was the fear in the maelstrom of scent and taste and colors.

A sudden flash of the bond prompted John to open his eyes. He saw Sherlock wrinkling his nose though not in disgust, rather in a feigned reproach. “You’re scratchy.”

John’s brows shot up at the dry statement and a laugh bubbled up his throat. His hand stroked over his own cheeks, feeling the rough texture of faint stubbles that he hadn’t shaved in the previous evening. He hummed affirmatively, and then his fingers brushed over Sherlock’s soft skin from his cheekbone down to his chin. Sherlock dipped his head into the touch like a cat seeking the caress. “Why is it you don’t have any stubble yet?”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, but John could sense the emerging tension which occurred every time when he spoke about his gender. “Omegas aren’t prone to facial hair or pubic hair.” A slight pink painted the canvas of his pale body. “I only need to shave every third or fourth day.”

“Oh.” That answered the question of Sherlock’s sparse body hair. “Lucky you.”

Sherlock made a clicking sound with his tongue and sat up, mischievous eyes boring into John. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Come on,” his baritone became a deep purr in his throat and John reluctantly forced his body up. He supposed that the mutual bliss was over because of his stupid stubble. “I’m going to shave you.” A playful crinkle framed Sherlock’s eyes before he vanished into the bathroom, door ajar as a clear invitation for John.

“Shave me?” John asked, incredulous, but got quicker up than expected, excitement stirring in him.

“Yes,” the purr got an edge of annoyance since he hated to repeat himself.

While Sherlock rummaged through the shelves in search for John’s shaving foam and wet razor, he pointed with his chin to the toilet seat, “Wash your face and sit down.”

John, who stood in the door, barely able to stifle his smirk, padded to the sink to do as he was asked before taking a seat. Sherlock had prepared a flannel, soaked with hot water and then wrung out. Gently dabbing John’s vulnerable skin, he prepared his face and throat for the clean shave while John pressed his lips together. He wasn’t quite sure whether to be flattered or feel self-conscious, so he suppressed his grin at the profound softness of the caresses as well as the realization of his own previous failures in shaving himself accurately.

Sherlock repeated this procedure twice before applying the shaving foam. Tender strokes spread the white cream from his cheeks down to his bobbing throat. The smile had stopped, and his eyes marveled at Sherlock’s supple movements portraying a sensual likeness of serious focus on his task.

“Stop swallowing now,” the baritone rumbled deep in his throat. His index finger directed John’s chin upward to get a better access to the skin under his jawline.

John swallowed one last time. He forced his salivary gland to stop producing too much saliva at the sight of his half-naked Omega looming over him in one of the most intimate acts John could ever imagine. With careful and deliberate strokes Sherlock scraped along the skin of the throat, feeling the carotid flutter beneath the razor. He knew that John’s pulse was elevated. Not only due to the danger of a sharp blade, but also by the sheer amount of trust he was putting in Sherlock’s absolutely erotic performance. With each brush of the razor along his skin to take away the with tiny stubbles enriched foam his desire fueled, heat spreading into his legs and lower abdomen.

When just small remnants of foam sprinkled his face, Sherlock turned around for another flannel to dip it into cold water this time. Wrung out, he dabbed once again the rest of John’s face and thus cooled the irritated skin. Small gasps escaped John at the sudden cold, yet disconcertingly, the heat in his crotch pooled further until his breath came in ragged panting. His eyes had lingered on Sherlock’s face for the whole procedure since he was told to look up for better access. But when the detective grabbed the aftershave from the shelf, John’s gaze dropped below his waistband. A widening grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and he rolled his tongue over his bottom lip.

Instead of asking, his fingers gripped the sharp crests of hipbones to haul Sherlock closer. The tent of the bottoms betrayed his arousal, and John fought the urge to press his nose against it.

“I’m not finished yet,” warned Sherlock, his voice gentle yet determined not to have his work disturbed.

John sighed, looking up again so that Sherlock could apply the stinging lotion to seal the slightly breached skin. “You like this,” John mused, then explained in more detail, “I mean, not just the sexual element of what you just did, but the domesticity behind it.” Their bond had been flooded the entire time with warm feelings while colors pulsated in bright contrast.

Sherlock stepped aside for John to check his face in the mirror above the sink. “I’ve never said that I don’t like it.”

“But you get bored the moment you solve a case.” John cocked his head in front of the mirror, staring at the perfectly shaved skin and running his hand along the smoothness in amazement.

“Had little to occupy myself with.” Sherlock shrugged, but his voice sang with the hidden pleasure of insinuation.

They looked at each other for a moment through the mirror. Before turning around John pulled his shirt over his head, eyes sparkling in a playful grin. His chin nodded to the toilet seat, and he almost growled, “Sit down and don’t forget to shed those ridiculous bottoms.”

Sherlock stared at John briefly, considering if he should understand the command as presumptuous in his tone or if he should be even more aroused. He decided for the latter when John shrugged his own bottoms off, prompting Sherlock’s body to hum with desire. So he did as he was bid.

The cold lid caused a small gasp in his throat. Goose bumps rippled across his skin in recurring waves as he sensed John’s intention, his whole body ablaze in pleasant anticipation. John straddled his long thighs, one hand cupping his neck and pulling him in for another fiery kiss. For the first time his poise spoke of a possessive Alpha, and Sherlock was unsure what to make of it. Their tongues melded with each other, and Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head. He floated in sensation, noticing that his own behavior had been possessive, too, and full of devotion at the same time. Sherlock had evoked that demeanor in John.

He guided Sherlock’s hand between them, breaking the kiss, but leaving their foreheads glued together to look down to the vees of their laps. “Put your hand around us.” That said, he squeezed a generous amount of an oily body lotion from one of the shelves into the large hand, and let Sherlock curl it around their aligned cocks. A moan pressed through his nostrils. His eyes swept over Sherlock’s lithe body, and he pressed his forehead even firmer against his friend. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in a mix of embarrassment and appreciation. John really meant what he said. It wasn’t as though Sherlock might have missed his impact on others. In fact, he toyed with it, using his graceful movements and dancing steps to confuse people, to manipulate them and distract them for their most intimate secrets. He liked it, having that power. Yet, it still made his skin crawl when he thought beyond the attraction and beneath the layers of self-protection that revealed his gender.

He looked at John in awe, realizing that his well-hidden self-consciousness dissolved under the scrutinizing gaze of his Alpha. Swallowing, he opened his mouth, hesitant with the never-before expressed compliment. “The sentiment is reciprocated.” He sensed the little huff of laugh tickling against his lips evaporate into a proper kiss. His free hand raked through the cropped hair on the back of John’s head, pressing him close since they were at the same eye level in their position. He had memorized each inch of John’s compact structure within the last few days. The strong physique had always been on display beneath several layers of clothing, but to touch it with his fingers at last, the gentle softness over firm muscles, rendered John as exactly what he always was – an Alpha who could appear homely for his enemies, but also lethal to protect the ones he loved. At this thought, a shiver whispered up his spine, prompting each hair of his body upright and he felt John’s cock twitch against his own.

The sensation of his hand wrapped around them was excruciatingly soft and sensuous. It flashed an entirely new feeling given that as an Omega the sexual focus stressed on other parts of his body. But right now, he was first and foremost a man, relishing the enticing sensation of his primary gender sliding along John. “I won’t last long,” husked Sherlock, eyes blown wide and looking at John.

“Me either,” John panted, his hand grasping Sherlock’s knee behind him to support his weight. His hips began to roll into Sherlock’s touch, gliding against his slick erection. With his head dropped back, he squeezed his eyes shut as molten blood pumped through his veins. Behind the lids a colorful explosion let stars sparkle in a blinding firework while the friction increased his rhythm.

Sherlock’s head dropped to John’s shoulder where he had bitten him. The red marks surrounded by fading bruises betrayed his loss of control the first time. He closed his mouth over the small dots, his tongue licking at the visible remnants of a consummated bond.

Heat spread through his body. Tendrils of lapping flames shinned up his spine. John’s hand released Sherlock’s knee to grab a handful of a bony hip. He returned Sherlock’s favor, pressing his tongue against the crescent of red marks on his shoulder. His bite had been more vicious than Sherlock’s since he had even drawn blood, the memory of the copper still lingering on his tongue.

His rhythm became more erratic when suddenly Sherlock tossed his head back, mouth open and wavering in a hitched breath. A groan born deep in his throat rolled through his vocal chords. John sensed Sherlock’s cock harden even further as it pressed against his own. Hot sticky fluid erupted between them and coated John’s erection. John couldn’t help, but stare at the sheer voluptuousness of how orgasmic impulses shuddered through the madman’s delicate body.

Although Sherlock’s mind might have been fogged with his own pleasure, his grip tightened a bit, knuckles brushing against the protruding tissue at the base of John’s shaft. It was the last thrust, the last brush over his knot, and crashing waves pushed him over the sensuous edge before his own release spurted across Sherlock’s chest together with an incoherent mumble of profanities.

For several long minutes, they clung to each other, bracing themselves as the world around them burst into a colorful play – John’s dark blue betraying the eternal depth of the ocean while Sherlock’s bright mercurial eyes glistened, bestowing a light amidst that dark depth. Their ragged breaths mingled and evened out as time ticked by. With a sated calm crooning over his body, another blissful moment dragged him from the dreamy verge of awakening. But John swallowed his rising fear, promising himself that he would be the Alpha Sherlock needed now.

With a final kiss, he got reluctantly up, his hand holding out to Sherlock in a mute gesture to guide him to the shower. They stayed silent in a space where words became redundant. John showed his gratitude by washing Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp and reaping a throaty purr.

After finishing their shower their paths separated as John shrugged into his terry robe to prepare breakfast, and Sherlock headed for the bedroom to get dressed. He flicked the kettle for tea and rummaged in the fridge for eggs. When he closed the fridge door the buzzing of the capacitor went silent, and he heard Sherlock talk in the bedroom. _A call?_ That could only be Lestrade, he mused, deciding to put the eggs back. With Greg calling, they would have no time to spare for a proper meal. Instead of the eggs, he grabbed a toast from the cupboard when Sherlock appeared from the bedroom, clad in his usual black suit with a white button-down shirt. He still struggled with the shirttails to push it beneath his trousers’ waistband.

“No time for breakfast. We have to go,” he said almost apologetically. “I’ll explain in the cab.”

John nodded and sprinted upstairs to get dressed as well, munching his dry toast on the way. His usual armor contained his dark blue jeans, a gray checked button-down and his Sig which he could perfectly hide beneath his favorite gray cardigan, tugged behind the waistband.

Shortly after, Sherlock had hailed a cab, and they were on their way to Weybridge in Surrey.

“What’s in Weybridge?” John asked after a while when Sherlock failed to elaborate and instead checked his emails.

“Mrs. Gale’s paternal house,” declared the detective deep in thoughts.

“You mean Dr. Gale’s?”

“No, Mrs. Gale’s,” Sherlock stressed.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice contained a mild warning, pushing to be filled him in.

The detective huffed in annoyance, putting his mobile down. “Why is it that Lestrade is such a slow writer?” But he turned to John, contemplating how to explain the difference between the doctor and the Misses. “The house belonged to the second wife of Mr. Gale, the Omega he married after his divorce from Dr. Samantha Gale. According to Lestrade, the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Gale had never been reported. Instead of being dead, he said, they immigrated to Argentina a year ago.”

John frowned, “But you said –“

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, interrupting John’s unspoken interjection. “There is no doubt that Mr. Gale had been murdered, presumably by Mary. Lestrade had Dr. Gale’s bank account have checked, too. He found a weekly transfer of several hundred pounds to an account held by a Mrs. Julia Gale.”

“The Omega?” John whispered, wary eyes shooting to the cabbie.

“Yes,” the detective confirmed. “I suppose that it had always been Dr. Gale’s backup plan in case her cover was blown – to take over the identity of Julia Gale who had also inherited her parents’ house in Weybridge when they died in a car crash five years ago.”

“Can she do that? Change her identity?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Doesn’t that remind you of someone?”

At this, John’s brows shot up, his heart suddenly leaping in his throat. “Moriarty?”

“Richard Brook,” Sherlock corrected. “It smells like the same scheme.”

“You think that Moriarty’s involved in this case?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock lifted his chin and turned his head to the window, seeing his battleground fade for a more rural peace. “Again: it leads us to the question of why he didn’t act the day I returned from Eastern Europe? I rather believe that Mary might have helped Dr. Gale escape prosecution with a familiar plan.”

John let the information sink in, propping his elbow against the window frame and resting his chin in his hand. “So you suppose Dr. Gale has moved to the house in Weybridge?”

“It’s the logical deduction,” Sherlock shrugged, sensing the sharp pull of John’s anger wriggling its way through their bond. He understood. The outrage was directed at Mary’s crimes of not only murdering two people, but also obscuring their deaths. What had they done with the corpses? Dead Alphas and Omegas weren’t easy to get rid of with no one realizing. This just highlighted the viciousness Mary was capable of. They needed to be very careful henceforth.

After an hour’s drive, the cabbie pulled up the curb at the municipal border of the small town. The district was quiet with no people on the streets at this time. “Shouldn’t Lestrade’s division be here?” John asked, doubtful, as his eyes swept over the front of the house.

“He doesn’t have a search warrant yet.” Sherlock shot his mobile one last look, sighing at the DI’s instruction to not take any further steps.

“Sherlock?” Another mild warning rolled over John’s calm voice.

“John,” Sherlock looked at his friend pleadingly in the hope of reasoning him. “We don’t have time to wait. She’s our only connection to lure out Mary.”

“And she knows that you’re an Omega,” John crossed his arms, fear seeping into his pores once again since those eternal twenty four hours.

“It’s a risk,” Sherlock agreed, aware of the fact since he had asked Lestrade for help. “That’s why it’s crucial for us to arrive first. We can talk to her beforehand.” Dr. Gale’s motives were unfathomable. _Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator_. She had no reason to expose Sherlock publicly since she already got her revenge by infecting him with Morbus. He clung to the conclusion like a drowning man, hoping not to have his secret disclosed to anyone more than Mike Stamford in the coming afternoon.

John nodded at last, and they crossed the street to the front door of the old red brick house. A small Ford Fiesta was parked at the curb, an older car model to draw little attention. It meant that someone was at home. Sherlock pressed a gloved finger to the bell, and John looked at him in surprise. His hand instinctively wandered to the small of his back, palm resting against the cold butt of his Sig. He hadn’t expected for Sherlock to ring the bell. Usually, they would pick the lock to sneak into a flat.

Sherlock sensed the confusion and shrugged his shoulders. Since the doctor might be in the house, he considered it best not to break in. A minute ticked by, but there came no response. He frowned and stepped back, looking up the façade. Could it be that Dr. Gale had seen them coming? He turned to John, “Put on your gloves. We’ll go in.”

John produced a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket pocket and drew his gun. While Sherlock retrieved John’s twin picklock from his leather toolkit, the Alpha shoved past him to turn the door knob.

“Er… Sherlock. I don’t think you need that.” He pointed with his chin to the picklock and pushed the front door open.

“It’s open?” Sherlock folded his brows. A bad sign.

“My way.” John emphasized, his face turning into a stern mask. Both men knew that an open front door almost always meant that someone stole a march on them. In those cases John took the lead with his gun at the ready, entering the house at first.

Stale air met them, implying that no one had lived in the house for quite a while. Directly to their left led a staircase upstairs. John shot the first floor a glance to check that no one might unexpectedly assault them from above. To their right was a guest toilet – _empty_. With deliberate steps, John crossed the hallway to find the kitchen and living room also empty. Suddenly he missed the warmth radiating from behind and turned around. Shoulders sagged in disbelief as he found Sherlock lingering in the guest toilet. “What are you doing there?” He kept his voice low despite Sherlock’s ignorance of staying close behind him.

Sherlock sniffed cautiously as he lifted the lid of the toilet seat. “This house hadn’t been inhabited for at least a year,” he whispered. His brows arched reproachfully at John’s failure to observe whereas his own behavior of looking into the remnants of a toilet had been the most normal thing to do; especially in a house where they supposed to find an assassin. When John looked at him with utter lack of understanding, he pointed into the white ceramic. “Evaporated siphon,” then he turned the tap on, and they watched how dirty rusty water sputtered from the faucet.

A thin layer of dust cloaked the furniture in the rooms, and dead mayflies lay cluttered in the window sills. But most prominent evidence of the house’s lack of inhabitants was the damp cold creeping into their clothes. Another sniff by Sherlock betrayed the faint scent of an Alpha. He leant into John’s ear in front of him and whispered, “Upstairs. Somebody’s been here.”

John’s hackles got up, his whole body tense. The thought of Sherlock nearby when danger screamed into their faces prompted a bad feeling in his gut. “You stay behind,” he commanded to make his point clear.

Warily, they walked back to the staircase. The wooden stairs were covered with a Burgundy colored carpet that muffled their steps. Yet the wood worked against them and released an occasional creak. John stopped and held his breath for a second, listening for any stirring they might have caused, any noise coming from upstairs that might reveal an intruder. On their left side, a white wall with a banister made of beech wood gave them cover while the hallway to the first floor stretched to their right on the upmost step. With the gun outstretched in front of him, John spun around to let his eyes sweep over the windowless semi-dark hallway. The only light invaded from the three rooms of the first floor. There was a bathroom and a study. At the far end of the hallway stood the door to the bedroom ajar, and John sensed Sherlock’s apprehension.

Together they tiptoed across the hallway, every single muscle straining so hard that John’s body began to ache. He never considered that bad though as the ache reminded him of being awake, alert and purposeful on his target – he felt so alive in those moments where adrenaline flooded him.

Pressing himself against the wall next to the door, John also shoved Sherlock against it, a hand lingering on the pounding heart beneath his ribcage. Carefully, he stepped into the doorframe to shoot a cursory look at the bedroom, pushing the door wide open. The sight that greeted him didn’t cause his arm to lower, but to close his eyes for a moment, realizing that they were the only living persons in the house.

Sherlock sensed the turmoil and rounded John to watch with his own eyes. Dr. Gale must have been asleep when her attacker sneaked into the house. The bullet hole dotted her forehead, but he knew that half of her skull had been ripped open at the back of her head, obscured by the white pillow now tinted in crimson red. He closed his eyes for a second while unbidden memories of Mary in her black clothing appeared in front of his mind’s eye, pointing her gun along with silencer at him. The piercing pain when her bullet cut through his flesh right into his inner core made his hand unconsciously cover his heart.

Their breathing was the only sound that broke the silence until Sherlock drew a sharp intake of oxygen. “I’ll call Lestrade.”

With his mobile already in Sherlock’s hand, John snapped back to reality, his voice dripping with sarcastic hate. “Well, at least this time she was thorough, wanted to be sure.” John wrinkled his nose in disgust. He didn’t pity Dr. Gale. She infected Sherlock with Morbus which made her not a jot better in his eyes than Mary and her crimes. _Mary!_ His heart clenched at the thought. _The woman I fell in love with!_ His stomach tightened in knots and bile rose in his throat. _She killed two innocent people by contract and buried them who knows where_. His nostrils flared as a fresh wave of anger and hatred washed over him, and God knows what would have happened if they would have encountered her here today.

Sherlock’s calming hand on his shoulder drew him back from his vicious thoughts, and he nodded with a jerk to imply that he was all right. Only then Sherlock called the DI.

Almost twenty minutes later, at least ten sergeants from the local police department trod on each other’s feet in the house. As this case belonged to Lestrade, they had to wait another thirty minutes for him to arrive from London.

“Jesus,” the DI swore, “I told you to wait.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference.” Sherlock shrugged with his morbid sense of humor.

Given that they already had made their statements, they became redundant in the turmoil of sergeants and forensics. “Any idea about who did this?” Lestrade blinked at Sherlock, hoping for a solution.

“Not yet,” Sherlock gritted his teeth, lying about Mary. He glanced at John from the corner of his eyes. His lips pursed and he averted his eyes to the floor. So John approved the lie, albeit grudgingly, Sherlock perceived. He sighed exaggeratedly, a false smile curling around his lips. “Look, we need to dash.”

At the sight of glacial pale blue amidst crinkles, the DI eyed the consulting detective warily. “This is my case, Sherlock.” Lestrade warned, suspecting that his friend might withhold some crucial leads. “Don’t you shut me out of your investigation.”

“I don’t. It’s for another case.” _A case where my life depends on_. But he bid the inside of his cheeks and forced a noncommittal expression.

Lestrade knew better than to drop his suspicion, especially in regard with Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he squinted at John who mimicked Sherlock’s face of indifference. Either John Watson had lived far too long with his friend and the consulting detective’s ability to be a perfect liar might have rubbed off on him, or Sherlock had actually told the truth. The DI clenched his jaw before releasing a sigh. “Alright, off you go then.”

They needed no second invitation, and Sherlock ushered John to the front door while Lestrade climbed upstairs. “Oh,” Sherlock turned his head and talked over his shoulder, “Text me when the ballistic report states that the bullet is from the same gun that once shot me.”

Lestrade halted at the topmost stair, bending forward to catch a glimpse of both his friends. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” But he didn’t receive a reply as Sherlock and John scurried away, ignoring him on purpose.

In their cab back to London, they remained silent. Sherlock sensed the inner turmoil chasing John’s mind. Since his bitter remark in the bedroom, John refused to speak even a word, brooding and nurturing his grudge against Mary. They couldn’t yet prove that Mary shot the gynecologist, although it was the logical conclusion. For Lestrade, the case just needed to get wrapped up as his texts to Sherlock revealed before he arrived. He had searched Dr. Gale’s surgery once again while waiting for a warrant to have a look at the house in Weybridge and found several unlabeled vials in her laboratory this time. A quick test confirmed that the content was a paralytic spiked with Morbus.

But the case wasn’t solved. He glanced at John from the corner of his eyes. His weathered lines deepened in a dark frown, his gaze unfocused to the outside. Of course, Sherlock should have informed Lestrade about Mary, but he always considered that to be John’s decision. Wherever sentiment was involved he tended to make mistakes. So he had waited for John to take the step since Mary had shot him.

His hand hovered over John’s, uncertain, where it rested between them on the black leather of the backseat. It dragged John from his contemplations as his eyes drifted to the place. He turned his palm, entwining their fingers, and Sherlock smiled that despite his personal pandemonium John allowed the caress.

They remained silent for another long moment. Sherlock gently stroked John’s palm with his thumb, hoping to ease his emotional hurting.

“How can you be so calm?” John’s voice was gentle, with no edge of a reproach, but earnest curiosity. “Why don’t you just hate her? For what she did to _you_ and all the other people?”

John’s eyes left the suburban scenery displayed out the cab’s window, and locked them with Sherlock’s pale blue searching for an answer he couldn’t understand. Sherlock held the gaze, but knew that the reply wouldn’t appease John. “She’s a perpetrator like any other we’ve ever met. That’s how I regard her. I never felt pity for the victims, nor did I truly hate the perpetrators.”

“Until Magnussen,” John interrupted, his voice still soft, yet his eyes betrayed the flash of fury.

“Until Magnussen,” Sherlock echoed, conceding John’s meaning. “But he also made me realize my biggest mistake – sentiment.” At this, John faltered, and his eyes dropped to their entangled hands. “Sentiment got the better of me back then and I failed to protect you. I became similar to those perpetrators we usually hunt down. By excluding sentiment from victims as well as perpetrators, I can keep a clear head.” He gesticulated with his other hand to his head, emphasizing his importance. “It does no good for me to nurture a grudge against Mary. It’d only fog my mind.”

John still looked at their hands, lacing his fingers through Sherlock’s and squeezing that he understood. It might seem to the outer world cold and heartless, but for he who knew the madman better than anyone it made sense. How could he argue with him about that then? And by including Mary in his world of thoughts at all, John noticed, Sherlock wasn’t as indifferent about her as he assumed. “Alright,” he nodded sympathetically and let his eyes ramble back to his window.

Sherlock had pressed his lips to a firm line, contemplating if he should ask John about Mary’s future. “Do you want me to report her to Lestrade?”

John’s frown deepened as he considered the proposal. After a moment he said, “I want to bring her to justice. I want her punished for her crimes.” He chewed on his bottom lip, another silence stretching between them. “Yet _I_ want to be the person who brings the arrest upon her, not only because she might threaten to expose you, but also because it’s… personal. Can you understand that? I’m not like you. I can’t shut my feelings out.” _Vengeance_ was the word that popped into his mind, but he didn’t dare speak it out aloud.

“Yes.” Sherlock almost whispered, overwhelmed with emotions. A lump formed in his throat and made it impossible for any further coherent word. So he kept silent, letting John make his decision.

After half an hour, they finally arrived at 221B. Mike had already dropped by, and Mrs. Hudson had admitted him into the flat, chatting with him over a cup of tea in the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are,” announced the landlady in her motherly manner. “Mr. Stamford has waited for you for over half an hour.”

“Is it already that late?” John asked sheepishly and looked at his wristwatch. “Sorry mate.”

“We were on a case,” Sherlock’s baritone rumbled an explanation, unapologetic.

Mrs. Hudson rubbed wet hands against her apron after rinsing their teacups. “Well then, you don’t need me anymore.” With that said, she headed for the door to the landing, passing the detective. “Oh, Sherlock dear, you look pale. Haven’t you eaten yet today?”

John’s eyes snapped nervously to his friend, checking again for symptoms that might cause any malaise. Sherlock recognized the sudden anxiety and spoke in a clipped tone to his landlady, “I’m always pale as you might have observed already if you wouldn’t busy yourself with superficiality.”

Taken aback by the waspish comment, Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs while John cleared his throat. “That was unnecessarily rude.”

Sherlock ignored the chiding and shrugged out of his Belstaff to put it on the hook in the living room. Mike retrieved his black briefcase from the tiled floor and followed the detective. The doctor was used to his mood changes, but knew that the detective’s acidity just betrayed his inability to cope with empathy. His brilliance imbued with his temper had never scared off Mike.

“So,” the thick-set doctor tried to ease the tension in the flat, “What happened? How did you learn precisely when you were infected?”

“Someone used a paralytic spiked with Morbus to sedate me for her escape.” Sherlock watched Mike placing his briefcase onto the coffee table. “She confessed that she injected me with the virus yesterday afternoon.”

“We did a quick test afterwards,” John tossed in.

Mike nodded gravely, shoving his glasses upward the bridge of his nose. “I see.” He opened his briefcase to produce several blisters with small ocher colored pills along with another couple of sets for drawing blood samples. “We have to test your units per liter of pekosterone in your hormonal level each day henceforth to know when we need to start with the synthesized pekosterone. I suppose you take suppressants?” He shot John a short knowing look, referring to their conversation over lunch a few weeks ago.

“Yes, I have three pills left.”

“Okay,” Mike said slowly, calculating the days. “Take them until they’re all consumed. Your heat should prevent the virus from causing the symptomatic decrease of your hormonal level, but once it’s over you’ll need the synthesized pekosterone.” He paused, eyes switching between his two friends. “But you know that it’s no long-term solution because –“

“I know,” Sherlock cut off Mike. He didn’t want to listen to a definite truth of what would happen after two months. And he didn’t want John to hear it and be reminded of their unwelcome fate.

Mike’s fingers curled around the elastic band of the tourniquet, pursing his lips. His eyes flicked to John, a slight uncertainty crossing his face. “Do you mind?” He asked, seeing how John’s eyes flashed a spark of reluctance.

“John will draw the blood,” Sherlock replied for his Alpha as he sensed John’s skin crawl with the thought of someone else breaching the skin of his Omega.

“Sure.” Barely surprised, Mike needed to stifle his smile at the connotations of their intimate behavior.

John took the tourniquet and slung it once again around Sherlock’s lean upper arm. While he drew the blood sample, Mike rummaged in his briefcase for a familiar little bottle containing the chemical composition to prove the virus in Sherlock’s blood. And then he produced in little plastic bags packed white medical dipstick. “With those indicators –” he explained, “We can ascertain your exact pekosterone level in your blood which will be essential for the next few days.”

When John had finished the (in his eyes) gruesome task, he handed the small red tube over to Mike who sat down on the sofa. He repeated the procedure Sherlock had performed the day before. Again, the fluid stained darkly, but not as black as yesterday; rather a purplish hue. Mike frowned with an almost imperceptible grunt. To be sure, he ripped one of the plastic bags with the test strips open to dip it into the mix of blood and chemical composition.

“You sure you’ve tested positive yesterday?” They all looked at the dipstick; how it changed colors creeping up the white paper, painting it in rainbow colors – from red at the bottom to purple in the middle where it stopped tinting the strip.

Sherlock knitted his brows pensively, “According to the quick test the hormonal level had already decreased significantly. Though, we couldn’t test the exact units per liter.”

John felt his throat constricting with sheer fear of what that meant.

But then Mike pointed out, “Your hormonal level of pekosterone is in absolute balance. There are no signs of Morbus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be July 2nd.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	16. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I’m going to update two chapters today with just a few hours apart (chapter 16 and 17). I hope this doesn’t cause too much confusion. Originally, I wrote it as one chapter, but my betas pointed out that it would be better for the continuity of the story to split it. So chapter 17 that will wrap up the main story will be updated later today, and then there’s only the epilogue coming in two weeks. 
> 
> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)
> 
> I was truly overwhelmed at the reactions in the comments, theorizing about a possible solution. It never occurred to me that the story would affect the reader so positively. It’s amazing and the highest compliment for a writer :)

“What do you mean _there are no signs of Morbus_?” John asked, bewildered. A slight feeling of vertigo enveloped him and he rubbed his neck where tiny beads of sweat coated his skin in a thin film. He couldn’t help it, the fear wouldn’t subside, simply too afraid than to give in to sheer relief.

Mike looked lost at John’s confusion, the work taking its toll. “The purple color on the dipstick confirms that Sherlock’s hormonal balance isn’t shattered by the virus. After twenty-four hours, it should at the very least, stain to light gray meaning a decrease of one hundred units per liter. Once it stains black at the top of the indicator we know we must start therapy with the synthesized pekosterone.”

“Are you sure?” John’s eyebrows arched with the question, a tiny spark of hope flickering in his _yellow_ colored mind. “What if some biological condition is delaying the drop in Sherlock’s hormones?”

“No, the progress of the disease is always the same.” Mike shook his head, frowning at the results of his tests.

While John argued with Mike about the possibility of an error in the tests, Sherlock strode to the kitchen, and retrieved the petri dish with the black stained blood. He furrowed his brows at his result from yesterday. It wouldn’t have turned black if the virus hadn’t already inhabited his blood. The excretions of the virus had an immediate impact on the white blood cells which created the dark tincture. Of course, it was a quick test that very well might contain flaws.

He went back to the sofa and wordlessly handed the petri dish over to Mike whose chubby face drew even deeper lines when he recognized the positive test from the day before. “That’s odd…”

Once again, John was confronted with his lack of knowledge about Omegas and a disease that had ravaged the world for twenty years. He puckered his lips in disapproval at his own ignorance. “Maybe it’s because Sherlock’s still taking suppressants?”

“No,” Mike gazed pensively at the small glass ware. “The contraceptive includes a small amount of pekosterone to hold the hormonal balance, but it’s not sufficient to work against the vast loss of pekosterone that occurs once infected.”

“That’s why I’ll need the synthesized hormones at some point,” Sherlock added, locking sharp blue eyes with John.

John’s eyes darted between his two friends, uncertain whether he should be reassured or if this news should terrify him even more. “Has that ever happened before? Someone’s hormonal balance returning to normal again after a day?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Mike pushed his glasses up his nose again. “It would imply that the Omega is healed which is impossible.”

“The quick test might have been faulty,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Which one?” John looked at his friend, noticing with concern that Mrs. Hudson had been right, and Sherlock’s pallor did paint a brighter contrast to his clothes than usual.

Sherlock shrugged, his gaze lingering on the black stained petri dish in Mike’s hand. “I can’t say.”

“Do you have a centrifuge and Giemsa stain?” Mike asked, clarifying his intention, “I’d like to smear a blood film onto a slide to check on your leucocytes further. With the centrifuge I can extract your blood serum to render a hormonal check on my own.”

The prospect of a task snapped Sherlock back from his racing mind and brought his usual focus to the forefront. “I nicked a centrifuge from Molly’s lab,” he said with brutal honesty and reaped a reproachful glance from John which he ignored. “Giemsa stain is in the cupboard next to the Bunsen burner over the small table in the kitchen.”

When Mike got up to bring the blood sample to the kitchen John gave his critical look a voice, “You nicked a centrifuge from Molly? Without asking?”

“Nicking implies without asking,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She never complained even though she knew it was me.”

“But what if she got into trouble?”

“It was ages ago, John.”

John’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head irritated. _Some things Sherlock might never learn_ , he sighed.

While Mike set the centrifuge to work with a loud buzzing noise, John flicked the kettle to prepare them tea. He trawled every coil of his brain for an explanation. Dr. Gale’s research results popped into his mind together with the involuntary image of the doctor with half her skull ripped off her head. He set his mouth to a grim line. The gynecologist had practically confessed to Sherlock that she had killed all those innocent Omegas and Alphas. Why would she lie to Sherlock, then divulge that she had infected him with Morbus? That made no sense. John pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut as a headache throbbed behind his temples. “Could it be…” he began slowly, sorting his chaotic thoughts for the right words, “What if Sherlock is the one Omega holding the antibodies against the virus?”

Sherlock, who had been looking over Mike’s shoulder, watching how he made the blood film between two slides, turned reluctantly from the medical examination. He sensed the hope flooding through their bond, but Sherlock responded with _yellow_ despair.

At once, John’s throat constricted, his flicker of hope nipped in the bud at Sherlock’s dulling emotion.

“Since I seemingly never got infected with Morbus the same thought occurred to me, and I tested my blood for antibodies myself.” Sherlock expounded, yet his otherwise vivid eyes remained stoic and hollow. “The test was negative, John.”

"But your body might have produced the antibodies - the immunoglobulin class G - after you were infected. How would you know if you had been infected if you created the antigens during the original infection?" John gesticulated with his hands agitated. “If that’s the case your body fights the virus right now just like any other flu virus.”

“That’s why I’m examining the leucocytes, and then I’ll check the hormonal level in the blood serum.” Mike looked up from the microscope, the light from the oculars highlighting the blue in his eyes. “It could be an explanation though, Sherlock would be the first Omega in this case.”

And there it was again, the slight flutter in his stomach speaking of hope, but tendrils of caution sent forth through his body with thorns yanking at his nervous system not yet allowing him the step to optimism. He swallowed, his mouth too dry and his tongue glued to his palate as panic, despite desirable faith rose within him. It felt like awakening from a bad dream after returning home from Afghanistan; a daily nightmare hunting him, and when he woke the vision stretched into reality, leaving a stale aftertaste of never trusting again into confidence. John wasn’t sure if he would survive such torture once again.

A warm hand curled around his shoulder where a red crescent of imprinted teeth marked his bond, dragging him back to the kitchen; back from those devastating nightmares that coiled in his mind like poisonous snakes. Sherlock locked his pale blue eyes with John’s, the image still blurred at the corners from fear. The usual piercing stare softened in the whirlwind of the poignant disorder of an almost forgotten past. His gentle hand stroked up to his neck, cupping John’s face. The tenderness alleviated the tension in his muscles as John relaxed them unconsciously. Without Sherlock’s swirling pheromones the effect remained rather passive, yet the deep rumble in his throat together with the soothing brush of his thumb against John’s cheek ensured the same hypnotizing power. “Be calm.”

Their foreheads leaned against each other as their breaths became one, staying like this for several minutes until the beep of the kettle tore them apart. It had helped. John’s muscles had slackened, and he bridged the divide to turn the nightmare into a soothing anticipation. “I’m sorry,” John whispered, self-conscious about his own overreaction.

“Don’t be. It’s just natural.”

Sherlock stood still closer when John recognized that he had bunched his hand into his lover’s button-down at the waist. John’s nostrils flared as a fraction of the Omega scent tickled his olfactory sense. His eyes narrowed, “I can smell you.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “As the bond is growing stronger and becoming steadier you can’t be fooled anymore. You’ll always be able to find me blindfolded in a crowd even when I have applied my fake scent. Plus, it makes me invisible for other Alphas. At some point I won’t even need the Alpha fragrance anymore.”

“That’s the most intriguing part about Alphas and Omegas. Their bonding progress sets off an avalanche in the biochemical process so that no other Alpha nor Omega can claim them. And it’s still unknown how the whole process works.” Mike talked enthusiastically, watching in awe at both his friends. His voice betrayed the excitement over the rare gender before he realized his inopportune interest and cleared his voice. “Well,” he gestured for his friends to have a look at the microscope, “Your inflammatory markers are slightly increased. But that’s no indication for Morbus. Your body might as well be fighting inflammation caused by something else like a cold for example.”

“That doesn’t really help us,” Sherlock uttered with no hint of reproach.

“Unfortunately, your makeshift lab doesn’t give me the ability to evaluate your blood with our computer programs from Bart’s. I can’t enlarge your blood sample enough to actually see the virus.” Sherlock gazed through the oculars, finding an increased amount of his leucocytes. “With the test of your blood serum, we can just rule out the danger of a considerable decrease of pekosterone. This could be an indicator that you might not have been infected.”

“So you can check the sample in St. Bart’s more accurately?” John asked, wanting the final proof.

“Yes,” replied Mike, leaning back in the chair. “Not with all my students around, but by the time we’re done examining the blood serum it’ll be late enough to find a quiet place.”

With that said, Mike returned to his assignment, checking on the centrifuge while John put three spoonful of dried tea leaves into the infuser of their teapot. When the tea had steeped he poured the brown tinged liquid into three tea cups, laying the table with sugar and milk.

Sherlock heaped two spoons of sugar into his cup and stirred absent-mindedly. He had fetched his laptop from the living room to start researching about failed Morbus quick tests and delayed decreases of pekosterone.

They worked in silence for a while, passing each new clue, each new found lead to John who compiled them, analyzing and assessing different experiments and results. Meanwhile, long shadows tarnished the flat as twilight sneaked through the windows, and evening fell upon London. An inner upheaval settled into Sherlock, dragging its way through their bond and into John’s subconscious. Precious time slipped through their fingers without finding a solution – the fallacy of power and control.

A sudden noise broke their silent work. Sherlock’s mobile declared an incoming message from Lestrade. He took the chance to stretch his legs while reading the text and walked to the living room.

_You were right. The ballistic report states that it’s the same bullet type which almost killed you last year. I think you owe me an explanation since you never told me who shot you. – Greg Lestrade._

Sherlock stared out of the window, the violin case open, an unspoken invitation beside him, reminding him of the peaceful bliss from the day before. With the streetlights illuminating Baker Street, sending light cones to the pavement, a slight fog floated along caused by a drizzle which coated the street. So it was Mary who had killed Dr. Gale. She had created an illusion for the gynecologist to feel safe and trust her. Yet in the end, the doctor became a liability that she needed to get rid of.

The floor lamp in the corner of the living room switched on, and Sherlock’s reflection appeared in the window glass. Beside him, John emerged who had also turned on the light in the kitchen for Mike. Sherlock held his mobile up for John to read the message.

“That’s the final proof, isn’t it?” John murmured since he didn’t want to let Mike hear the hard facts about Mary yet. “But if she’s behind the murders, is it just coincidence that she involved us? Or did she plan this from the very beginning?”

“That’s a question only Mary can answer,” Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly in disbelief. “I just don’t understand why she waited so long to fulfill the contract.”

“Because she couldn’t kill you in case we were both her targets.”

“But how would she have known of me being an Omega?” Sherlock turned his face to John, locking intense mercurial eyes with his Alpha. “She must have learnt my secret before she even met me the first time in the Landmark Hotel.”

John bit the inside of his cheeks, anger rushing through his body. The case was solved, yet still they neither knew the whole truth nor could they prove Mary to be the murderer. “We need a plan to lure her out from her safe house,” grim determination resonated from John’s voice.

Sherlock’s gaze had turned back to the window, seeing in the reflection how John’s mouth set into a thin line, the corners curved downward. The image began to blur as the drizzle turned into a heavy pre-spring rain with big drops speckling the window. “I’ll think of something.” Sherlock nodded his affirmation, their bond reverberating with resolve. Although catching an assassin shouldn’t be their primary target for now, deep inside his churned up emotions wanted vengeance. Not for himself, but for John. Even with only a thirty percent chance of his Alpha surviving the grieving, in the end Mary would wait for John with her gun pointed at his head. He needed to make sure that Mary was erased from the game for John’s safety and to avenge John for her forcing him into that gruesome fate.

A stirring in the kitchen dragged them from their tacit understanding, shoulders brushed against each other as they sought the physical contact whenever possible. When they turned around to look at Mike he smiled at them. “My quick test wasn’t faulty,” he declared a bit out of breath. “Your blood serum shows the same results. Your pekosterone level is in complete balance.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” John asked hopefully, taking a load off his mind. “It means the other test was faulty?”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock interrupted, a frown prompting a deep furrow over the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Gale confessed to the murders. Why wouldn’t she infect me?”

“Maybe John’s hypothesis is right –” Mike rubbed his neck pensively, “ – and you’ve become somehow immune.”

John glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost eight o’clock. “Do you think the lab in Bart’s might be vacant by now so we can have the blood sample properly analyzed?”

Mike followed John’s look to his own wristwatch and nodded. “Yes. Lucky for us, we got a scanning electron microscope sponsored last year. I presume it’ll take a while for me to have the blood sample analyzed.” He returned to the kitchen to put the PAXgene tube into his briefcase and shrugged into his jacket. “But please bear in mind that with such a small sample it might be possible to not find anything evaluable. Finding a virus can be tricky.”

John nodded and patted Mike on the shoulder. “If you need anything else just call me.”

“I will,” Mike clasped his briefcase under his arm. “And repeat another quick test again tomorrow, now that we know that the indicator isn’t faulty.”

“Thank you, Mike.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled through the living room, and Mike dipped his head to bid his goodbye.

Sherlock watched from the window as the compact man headed for the tube station and then crossed the room to flop into his armchair. The events of the day pressed on his shoulders like a dead weight. Everything seemed to be in a blur and he couldn’t yet grasp the entirety of what had happened. Had Dr. Gale made a mistake and just injected him a paralytic without the virus? Or was John right and Sherlock had become immune over the course of years without noticing?

While John prepared dinner for them, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, steepled fingers brushing his lips meditatively. They needed a plan to catch Mary – to set a trap for her. She might give them some answers to very pressing questions.

The clatter of dishes on the kitchen table tore him from his deep thoughts after a while. Sherlock’s eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room as he saw John laying the table. The scent of rice with honey sesame chicken filled the flat, and his stomach betrayed him with a hungry rumble. His transport needed to step back for the sake of an upcoming heat, and for this he needed to be well-nourished.

He trudged to the kitchen and took his seat across from John, humming his appreciation of the delicious smelling supper. John’s lips twitched with a tired smile, mirroring Sherlock’s feelings over an exhausting day. They were both deprived of their energy, and after finishing their dinner, he was certain they would decide on an early night.

Sherlock sensed the emerging question, a tickle whispering up his spine while John fidgeted in his chair. “You won’t like my plan I’ve been contemplating about.” He mumbled after chewing and swallowing the sweetened chicken.

“As long as we catch Mary I can accept it.” John countered dourly resolved.

“The plan will include Mycroft. As much as I resent agreeing to it, his position in the government can be quite helpful.” Absent-mindedly, he poked a morsel of honey roasted chicken across his plate. “I want you to text Mary. Somehow, I believe she’s awaiting your message since she believes that I will die. This was meticulously planned by her, and I’m sure she wants to see the result. So, you’ll tell her to meet her at the cemetery where my fake coffin was buried.”

“Quite dramatic, isn’t it?” John arched his eyebrows.

“She’ll like it. The location is assessable and easy to survey – for both parties. Mycroft can position the SAS in a wide range, and she’ll fall for the illusion of safety. And when we strike she’ll be surrounded with no possibility of escape.”

“Okay, I get that. The SAS will be our backup, but what exactly are _we_ going to do?”

“Make her confess.” A small yet winning smile tugged at the corners of his lips before he shoved the fork with impaled chicken into his mouth.

“We’re dealing with an assassin, Sherlock. She never willingly admitted anything.” John tried to reason the detective and sighed. “I just wish I hadn’t destroyed that damn memory stick and read the content instead.”

“Believe me, after all what we know now, I’m fairly certain it was blank anyway.”

“Bugger!”

“I’ll have us wired and connected with Mycroft during the talk. He’ll record it, so we can use the tape against her in court.”

“But wouldn’t that reveal your gender to the public?” John asked with folded eyebrows, a chill trickling down his spine as he realized that he indeed disliked the plan.

“That is why we have Mycroft. First of all, he’s my Alpha brother and can testify to my being an Alpha. He’ll find a psychiatrist to diagnose Mary as a psychopath and with a confirmed mental disorder no one in court will believe her.”

“We’re treading on thin ice with that plan,” John remarked a bit brusquely.

“I know,” Sherlock conceded. “But I’m not subject to the investigation. Either way, we may require no argument: if I’m infected it’ll be too late, or if your hypothesis can be proved right I’ll be the salvation for a whole gender that won’t need to hide anymore.”

John looked at his plate aghast at the mention of the simple fact that there wouldn’t be any help for Sherlock if he was infected. Suddenly his hunger evaporated, and he laid the fork down. “I hope it’ll be the latter.”

Sherlock who sensed the fear rising again reached for his lover’s hand, cupping it in a fond caress, thumb stroking the back of John’s hand. “Let’s go to bed. It’s been far too a long day.” His deep baritone rolled low in his throat, almost a purr, yet with no hint of seduction, but comfort.

John nodded, gripping the tender hand, and guided his Omega to the bedroom where he undressed Sherlock. The gesture implied only but care. Each touch conveyed the deep love they shared, and Sherlock returned the favor once John had clad him in his blue and gray striped pajama bottoms.

After brushing their teeth, they crawled under the duvet. Collapsing in their new found favorite sleeping position, they faced each other with entangled legs and draped arms over the chest to hold each other close and share the warmth. They kissed for several long minutes; not too deep to stir any arousal, but the quiet bliss lulled them into a sphere of unconsciousness where only sensation mattered until they succumbed to an exhausted sleep.

***

Sherlock woke to the first rays of sunshine tickling his eyelids, evoking a deep grunt of disapproval in his throat. His limbs involuntarily stretched the stiffness off his still drowsy body and he couldn’t prevent consciousness creeping back into his mind, unable to clasp the sweet and peaceful slumber once again.

Since John was still sound asleep beside him, he carefully lifted the heavy arm to slip out of the cozy embrace. His lover stirred under the loss of warmth beside him, but didn’t wake up.

Sherlock flicked the kettle in the kitchen to prepare tea and crossed the flat to pull back the curtains in the living room. The light, with its orange and pink hues promised a bright day. When Sherlock shoved the heavy fabric of the curtain aside dust whirled up, endless tiny flakes dancing around him. The morning sun left the room freckled with dots shimmering in pearl-white. His eyes dropped to the pavement of Baker Street, making deductions about people of the working population rushing to the tube station. It portrayed his self-proclaimed battleground – a world where people had always regarded him as aloof and unsocial, a genius if convenient, but a freak if inconvenient. Yet he liked it. He ignored the idiots and picked out only the interesting facets, so his brain wouldn’t rot. But what remained for him at the end of the day?

_John_.

He realized that he moved along the thin verge to an abyss of losing those precious remnants: the quiet evenings with John watching telly or playing the violin for him or discussing recent research results on forensics. When he had shaved John even the man himself perceived that Sherlock enjoyed the domesticity as much as he liked his Work – two so very different things bound together by John.

For a second, his heart fluttered in his chest, nervous and frightened. His hand came up and wiped away condensed water at the edges of the window. Turbulent, thrilling London that someday would devour him with its murderers, serial-killers, psychopaths – with its villains. At the same time, a voice whispered in his mind, a hopeful shimmer shining as bright as the rays of sunlight through the windows: what if the metropolis wouldn’t claim him. What would become of John and him then? He had never thought about the future, but since his life was at stake this small nagging sensation at the back of his skull got brighter. What if one day there only remained the end of the day because the Work would be done by others, younger and stronger? Would his battleground still be his home then?

A pair of arms snaking around his chest from behind snapped him back to 221B. John muffled a sleepy grunt into his shoulder. “I’ve been missing you.”

Sherlock’s hands gripped the strong underarms of his lover, tiny blond hair prickling his fingertips. “I couldn’t sleep any longer.”

John hummed, his arms tightening around the slender frame of his Omega. “Mike just called,” he began, sensing the tension scrambling into Sherlock’s body. “He said, we shouldn’t worry, but he has something he wants to show us for a second opinion.”

Sherlock turned around in his lover’s embrace. “Then let’s get dressed.”

Half an hour later, they sat in the back seats of a cab, heading for St. Bart’s. John’s pulse quickened as it did every time he drew closer to the hospital, the reminiscence of Sherlock’s jump still too present in his mind despite the long time that had already elapsed. An almost imperceptible shudder shook his body, the building always parading a hapless metaphor of being unable to stop the horrendous decision Sherlock had made. It wasn’t the sight of his friend’s bleeding and lifeless body on the pavement, but the knowledge of his own inability to persuade Sherlock into another course of action. That helplessness transformed into guilt afterward which made it so hard to forgive Sherlock when he came back.

They found Mike in the laboratory, staring at the computer’s monitor with furled brows over the rim of his glasses, eyes reddened from a hard night’s work. When his friends entered the room he looked up. “There you are,” he greeted them, his gaze softening in relief.

Without hesitation, Sherlock rounded the desk with three long strides to squint at the monitor. “That’s what you got from the electron microscope?” He frowned at the scanned picture, fingers coming up to brush his lips unconsciously as he became absorbed in thoughts. John felt his stomach drop, following his lover to catch a glimpse as well.

A small silence stretched between them as they tried to understand what they had detected. Without doubt, they were looking at the virus.

“I could make five evaluable scans last night,” Mike declared. “Here we unmistakably see the virus, but it’s not inactivated, rather… it’s damaged.

John drew a sharp breath, “So he is infected.”

Mike’s dark framed eyes stared at John, “Yes and no. _Was_ would be the correct tense. What we have here isn't caused by antibodies from an inactivated virus.” He shoved his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and flicked through the other images. “I believe the virus was attacked and irrevocably damaged by _this_ ,” his finger tapped pointedly at a blue colored strip-type unicellular organism.

“That’s a bacterium,” John rubbed his chin pensively.

“Yes,” Mike confirmed. “I found three viruses, all in the same damaged shape. Which means, we can exclude antibodies built by your body. Otherwise we should see them attached to the virus. But the damaged form leads us to the conclusion that this bacterium might have destroyed the virus. It also explains why your first test was positive so short after the injection, but mine was negative.”

“Do bacteria normally do this – attack viruses and destroy them?” Sherlock’s voice became rough at the realization that he wasn’t infected anymore, that he wouldn’t die of the most dangerous disease the world had faced in twenty years. His hand gripped the back of Mike’s chair hard, afraid his knees might buckle with overwhelming emotions.

“A few do. As some viruses also destroy bacteria,” Mike replied, allowing a small smile tugging at his lips as he could literally see how this discovery took a load off his friends’ minds.

“Oh my God,” John whispered a hand flying to his mouth, “That means Sherlock’s not ill?”

“I would say so,” Mike’s smile stretched.

“What bacterium is that?” Sherlock tossed in, interrupting the budding joy.

“That’s the tricky part,” Mike confessed. “I have no idea. Sorry. I’m neither a virologist nor a bacteriologist. But I filtered the bacterium’s characteristics and have a program running right now to identify the little killer.” He opened a tab in the background with the program browsing hundreds of pages in record time, trying to find a matching bacterium in its database.

Again they stared at the monitor, waiting for a clarification when the door to the laboratory opened, and Molly came in. “Oh, hey, long time no see.” She greeted her friends, tugging at the sleeve of her white coat, implying her shift had just begun.

“Molly,” John was the first to regain his composure. After suffering the dreadful events of the last few days, relief flashed through his body, flooding his nervous system with a sheer rush of endorphins in a split-second. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” her smile broadened. “Oh, you’re on a case?” Her chin pointed toward the monitor.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied curtly.

When his friend didn’t bother to explain John took up the subject. “We need to find out what that little bacterium is. Apparently it’s capable of destroying the Morbus virus.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, incredulous. Craning her neck to have a proper look at the monitor, she frowned, “Um…”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his voice turned sharp. “What?” The question was laden with the demand for an explanation. He knew the mousey expression from Molly Hooper – too shy to show off her knowledge.

“I know that bacterium,” she declared, quickly elaborating as she glimpsed the impatience in the detective’s eyes. “It’s Alpha Streptococcus, a bacterium that can only be found in the mouth cavity of an Alpha. Since we had those murder-suicides including Alphas and Omegas we were instructed to do a whole screening. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known. It’s a knowledge we seldom need.”

“How would a bacterium that only an Alpha can produce intrude into my system? This…” But then his thoughts trailed off as the reply popped into his mind with all its lucidity, “ _Oh!_ ”

When the epiphany hit him his hand flew to his shoulder where several layers of clothes obscured the mark that betrayed the claim John had laid on him a couple of days ago. Sherlock swallowed and listened to John exhaling noisily, “Oh my God, I’ve bitten you.”

A sound similar to a hiccup escaped Molly’s mouth, “Bitten you?” Crimson red flushed her face down her throat to where her skin was covered by her dark blue turtleneck.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded to John, encouraged, now that it all made sense, ignoring Molly’s own mental epiphany. “You bit me barely twenty four hours before Dr. Gale injected the virus into my system. The bacteria were already there and as soon as the virus began to spread, it attacked and destroyed the virus.” He whirled around to Mike, “Would this make it a cure for the disease?”

Mike rubbed his neck, a bit self-conscious. “Of course we need to do more tests to validate the thesis, but I suppose yes, this would make it a cure for Morbus.”

While Sherlock’s usual fervor returned into his body, fueling his every nerve with fire, he shook his head in disbelief. “For twenty years scientists have looked for a vaccine built on antibodies which only an immune Omega might have produced, but they never thought to examine the unique biochemistry of an Alpha.”

“The Alpha saving his Omega in their most natural way,” John huffed a small laugh, relief washing over him in a riptide, and hope for a whole gender bloomed within his chest.

Sherlock’s hand squeezed Mike’s shoulder, “The Nobel Prize is yours.”

“Ours you mean,” Mike husked, a bit out of breath at the realization that they had indeed found a treatment for Morbus.

“Yours,” Sherlock emphasized. “I have no intention of being part of it. John?” He shot his friend an asking glance.

“Oh no, thank you, but no.” A grin played at the corners of his mouth. “The hubbub about it, the susurrus of never ending questions. Nah!” No, he had other things in mind for after they catch Mary like taking a day off, or a week, or two – just the two of them exploring their newly formed bond and relishing peaceful intimacy.

“You are an Omega?” The question almost evaporated in the air as Molly’s fingers muffled the words, fluttering in front of her lips.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in his exuberant behavior, but turned around to lock a sympathetic pale blue gaze with his friend who was prone to blurting facts out in a question. “Yes, Molly, and I would appreciate it if that stays between us because it’s private and is of no one’s concern but mine.”

Slowly her shocked countenance faded as she swallowed, and a timid yet honest smile crossed her mouth while she nodded in several overenthusiastic jerks. “Sure.”

“We have to hatch a plan on catching a murderer then. Mike,” turning back to his stout friend, he said, “Keep us informed and call me if you need another blood sample.” With that said, he strode toward the door, expecting John to follow him.

When the fresh air enveloped them, cooling their heated minds, the capability to think straightforward again illuminated his mind palace. Sherlock watched for a cab he could flag down, “We’ll pay Mycroft a visit –”

“Sherlock?”

“– elucidating our plan for the next days.” Sherlock proceeded without paying attention to John.

“Sherlock,” a gentle hand grasped his shoulder, squeezed slightly, so he would turn around.

But before he could lock questioning eyes with his lover, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, drawing him down into an embrace. It didn’t matter to John if they would expose their vulnerable affection in the public. At last, John had overcome his fear of homophobic prejudices.

For a moment, Sherlock didn’t know how to react until his arms hesitantly came up, encircling his Alpha to bunch his fingers into the thick fabric of John’s jacket. They just held each other, letting themselves come down from the inexhaustible shock of the last days.

John took a deep breath, the fake Alpha scent disturbing his olfactory sense, but below he faintly perceived the natural fragrance of his Omega. “Just give me a moment,” he pleaded, his voice muffled from the collar of Sherlock’s woolen coat.

Sherlock hummed, his embrace tightening to let John taste the almost lost bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the medical solution found its end with this chapter, I’d like to point out once again that I don’t have any medical background and the solution is completely fictional as well as the Omegasverse ;) According to my researches there are indeed a few viruses attacking and destroying bacteria, but not vice versa. I asked some of my friends who had a medical training, and they confirmed even though there might be no bacterium that could inactivate a virus doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be possible. And so the concept of this story was born. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	17. Battleground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: I’ve updated chapter 16 earlier today. Just in case you have missed it, go back to the previous chapter to find out what happened with the virus ;)
> 
>  
> 
> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

Two days had passed since they worked out a plan together with Mycroft. Of course, he couldn’t muster the SAS overnight, but on the third day mission _Magpie_ was go. The SAS in their black tactical combat clothing held their position in a wide circle around the cemetery.

Mycroft waited in a helicopter near the cemetery, in his ear a plug that connected him to Sherlock and John. The wires also led to a recorder, so that they could use the audio material in court if necessary.

John insisted on wiring Sherlock. Since his Omega had consumed the last pill of his suppressants the evening before, he was a bit piqued by the presence of others drawing too close to his lover. His sanity reasoned him that it would be too early for any symptoms of a heat, but his imagination ran wild and he sensed Sherlock’s pheromones yanking at him with a gravitational pull.

They waited separately for Mary. John stood near the grave that once belonged to Sherlock. Gruesome memories swirled in his mind. He remembered those horrible first days after Sherlock’s death when he had visited it daily until he stopped, realizing the pain would destroy him in the vortex of grief. When he returned after fifteen months it had been with Mary. _What an irony now_ , he thought sourly.

Sherlock stood a few meters away, obscured by an old pine with bushes surrounding the thick trunk. The SAS had made him up to look sick, his face pallid with dark circles around his eyes and his lips cracked. His cheekbones protruded even more than usual, and John needed to swallow the sudden urge of protectiveness as he saw his Omega looking so frail. The masquerade was part of the plan to lull Mary into a false sense of security, so she might talk about her plan.

A slight crack in the ear-plug tore them from their silent contemplation before Mycroft’s voice declared the arrival of John’s former wife. Everything around him hushed into a deadly silence as John focused on Mary coming closer, only the thunder of his own heart in his ears drummed in a relentless rhythm. She wore her usual red short coat with her contrasting blue leather gloves, matching blue jeans and white sneakers. A handbag hung around her shoulder. Her right hand clasped the white leather in a tight grip. John supposed that she brought more than just make-up and keys. Well, that made two of them as he felt the cold metal tucked behind the waistband of his jeans, ready to use if she would force him.

“John,” she greeted him with a curt nod, her eyes scanning the area for any conspicuousness.

Since the day he left the house, John hadn’t seen her. Sherlock told him that she had abandoned the house, apparently after they contacted Dr. Gale for the first time. “Mary.” He couldn’t distinguish if the change in his perception of his ex-wife was due to his knowledge about their recent cases, but something in her shifting movement prompted his hackles to stand upright. Still wary about where to put his hands as she drew closer, he suddenly recognized the difference – the Alpha scent. She hadn’t applied her fake Beta scent back in the house when they last met, but it wasn’t as pure and aggressive as today. “It’s been a while.”

She snorted a laugh, scoffing at his sarcastic remark. “There was no reason, I suppose.”

John met her eyes flashing dangerously, and he returned the favor. “No, I suppose not, but obviously _you_ had a reason to meet Victor Trevor.”

Her smug smile faded the second John had said the name of the other Alpha. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is,” John drawled, his hatred cutting the surface of his poise, and his nostrils flared. “Especially since you’ve been working together with Samantha Gale who was found shot with the same bullet type you once put into Sherlock’s heart four days ago.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” She clutched her handbag closer, and John caught a glimpse of the zipper already open and ready for her to just grip the gun. After a moment of gathering her composure, her smugness returned, “Oh, by the way, how is Sherlock?”

Of course she had been informed about his lover’s medical condition, not the real one though, and it was precisely as Sherlock had predicted. Mary wanted to witness the result, her lips curling at the corners of her mouth in a sardonic grin, and John struggled to contain himself from grabbing his Sig that exact moment. Something about Mary’s behavior and movements reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite grasp of whom.

“You know that damn well,” he snarled at her impudence in asking a question she already had the answer to. Luckily, his disgust didn’t betray his lie as it could be interpreted either way.

Another small snort let her nostrils flare, and she shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference. It was then when John realized that she truly wanted to hear how Sherlock was doing in very morbid curiosity. Where did that interest in Sherlock suddenly come from? “Thought it would be nice to ask?”

John narrowed his eyes, incredulous, as he saw the woman in front of him as ex-Mrs. Watson, but observed her true nature for the first time ever. She wasn’t playing hide and seek anymore: the arrogant smile in her face, her slow shift from one leg to the other to support her threatening stance and to strain her muscles for whatever action would be necessary, and the aggressive Alpha scent emanating from her – all those signs revealed the predatory assassin. “I know who you are.”

“Do you?” Her smile twisted into a derisive crook, considering the memory stick and calling him a bluff, she fended off the statement with a counter question.

John pressed his lips to a thin line, a chill trickling down his spine. This was the time where their real plan came into action, the one they had rehearsed over and over again the last couple of days. “I’m not speaking of the blank memory stick.” Her smile faded a fraction and her brows folded, but she held her piercing stare. “I know, you’ve been working for Moriarty from the beginning. You’ve been his sniper – his assassin – to finish off the contracts he was hired to do as a consulting criminal. And the day Sherlock jumped from the rooftop of St. Bart’s, you signed the contract to kill me.”

With each spoken word, John noticed a subtle change in her serenity. Her body tensed, becoming very still, her blue eyes turned into glacial icicles boring full of disgust into John and she wrinkled her nose as she said, “Don’t flatter yourself. You were never a primary target.”

And there was it. The first piece of confession he heard from her own lips ever. “Then who?”

“Me,” a hoarse baritone rasped from behind, stepping closer to John as Sherlock left his hideout and Mary’s eyes locked with the detective’s.

The air charged with hormones, and Mary forced another smug smile onto her face. “Sherlock,” she greeted him with the distinct singsong that reminded him of the day he awoke in the hospital after she shot him. “You look awful.”

“Whose crime would that be?” He feigned the sickness so well that John reached for him by instinct, grabbing his elbow to brace his Omega in a mock play.

Mary’s eyes betrayed utter curiosity and odd relief, and John couldn’t place that mix of contradiction in her expression. “It’s kind of satisfaction, you know.” Her composed façade faltered a bit, “John seeing you slowly rot until you’ll die, and you not knowing whether he’ll survive afterward or not. This uncertainty will be penance for deceiving us.”

“ _Us_?” Sherlock knitted his brows into a frown. Surely, she didn’t speak of John and herself.

For a second, her glare focused as she realized her mistake of revealing too much information, but then she shrugged as if the burden lost its claim since Sherlock would die either way. “Yes, _us_ ,” she emphasized, “Moriarty and me.”

“So you were working for him,” John tossed in, anger creeping up his spine and raising his hackles.

“I’d say we were equal partners.”

A shift in her scent betrayed that the subject involved emotional dependence. And all at once, the scales fell from Sherlock’s eyes, “He was an Omega.” He had never realized it, but that explained his frequent comparison to the detective in an emotional attachment. “ _Your_ Omega.”

Her lips pressed into a firm line, the corners of her mouth tilted downward at the reminder. John gaped at his ex-wife. “ _Your_?”

“Oh John,” she sighed, exaggerated. “Your level of indifference and ignorance toward your own gender is so ridiculous. There aren’t just bonds made of love with a sexual implication. There are also bonds of admiration and friendship.”

“No mutual bonds though,” Sherlock interrupted tartly. The sudden aggressiveness against his Alpha annoying him.

It hit the mark, and she refocused on Sherlock again. “No,” she conceded. “It was a one-sided bond. Moriarty was brilliant, an extraordinary genius in every way, and I did work with him without any boundaries of contracts.” Suddenly, her gaze turned unfocused, and her expression slipped into a mask of agony. “He was dying.”

John looked disgusted as he saw his ex-wife with her eyes full of admiration for another man – a psychopath – whereas those eyes never showed him the same respect. Bile rose in his throat, “Yeah, he shot himself. Very brilliant.”

Her glare snapped to John, “He was dying of Morbus.” Her words cut like the razor-sharp blade of a knife, and John failed to recognize the person he once fell in love with him. He faced a complete stranger. “And since he esteemed Sherlock as a mirror image of himself, he wanted to drag him down into death too. This became his legacy, proving that the great consulting detective was a bloody fraud.”

“But I didn’t commit suicide,” Sherlock emphasized, pressing for the whole truth.

“No, you didn’t. Throughout the following twelve months I noticed something was going on in Eastern Europe and that someone was trying to dismantle my network. In the end, I learned that you hadn’t died and were playing tag with my people. So I schemed to get you out of there, instructing Lord Moran to blow up Parliament. I knew your brother would call you back from your mission, and then I would have you exactly where I wanted you.”

“Then why didn’t you kill me the instant I set foot in London?”

Her expression fell into a rigid sculpture of utmost revulsion as she hissed, “ _To burn the heart out of you_.”

The sentence stank of pure hatred, and both men inhaled sharply as they remembered the words slipping from Moriarty’s mouth in a contortion of frenzy. But this wasn’t Moriarty’s plan, it was Mary’s, and Sherlock discerned the loathing seeping out of her. He realized that just killing him didn’t serve her satisfaction. No. She wanted to see him suffer.

“That’s why you planted yourself on John?” His words sounded hollow at the extent of her emotional cold-heartedness. She had never loved John, used him as a tool for her plan to make Sherlock suffer.

“You of all the people shouldn’t take offense. You’re toying with people all the time, manipulating them in doing what you want. We’re not that different.”

“Don’t you dare!” John threatened, his dominant hand flexing, and it took all his control to refrain from reaching for his Sig.

“It wasn’t so difficult, really.” She ignored John’s idle threat. “I had enough time to establish a relationship and lure you out of your hideout in Eastern Europe. The only tricky problem was for you both to realize what you felt for each other. I knew when you returned from the dead, I had to encourage your friendship to not drive you further apart. For you, Sherlock, it had a double affect – by supporting your friendship, I gained your trust and simultaneously prompted you to realize the loss of your best friend. Step by step, I put bread crumbs in your way. I attacked Magnussen with the sole purpose that John would finally recognize whom he had married. It’s been so easy to be the puppeteer, seeing you dance according to my strings.”

“But you couldn’t predict that I would kill Magnussen?”

“No, but I calculated the risk.”

“So it was _you_ – the video with Moriarty.” John put two and two together now, especially after Mycroft had told him that the tape hadn’t been his doing to call back Sherlock.

“Before long, I knew, you wouldn’t forgive me.” Her eyes flickered between the two of them. “You’re so predictable when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. Of course you did return to him. It was just a matter of time – with the stage set.” Mary made a flourish gesture with her hand, drawling the last words portentously.

A moment of silence stretched between them, only the crisp breeze audible in the trees mingled with the chirping of a few birds. Sherlock shifted his weight, straightening his back and rounding his shoulders from his rather hunched posture. “Neat.” This time his voice betrayed no edge of hoarse sickness. “It just leaves open the question of how you learned of my being an Omega.”

Mary narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the sudden change of Sherlock’s pose. “James told me, obviously.”

Sherlock feigned a surprised _Oh_ with his lips. “Obviously,” he echoed. His baritone reverted back to its usual deep strength, rumbling in his throat and dripping with sarcasm. Without doubt Moriarty divined it, and in one of Mycroft’s interrogations he demanded the confirmation.

This fueled Mary’s suspicion, and her face contorted into a grim mask with furrowed brows and flared nostrils, speaking sharply as she seemed to realize she was missing something important. “What?”

“So this was all a meticulous plan, and you used Dr. Gale to carry out your _design_ since you couldn’t harm me.”

“She owed me a favor.” Mary shrugged her shoulders, but Sherlock couldn’t be fooled as he observed the tension creeping up her body, making her scent shift of its own volition. “She hated Omegas and agreed to help me as long as I would assist her on her own personal vendetta.”

Sherlock took a deliberate step forward, halfway obscuring John who reached for his Sig without pulling the metal free from his waistband – to be ready for the showdown. Sherlock’s gait revealed lightness, letting his disguise drop as a winning smile curled at his lips. “Really neat. I give you that.” His hand came up to ease off the make-up patch at his bottom lip, exposing the smooth skin of his perfectly lush lip. “But you’ve made an enormous mistake.”

Mary gritted his teeth at the sudden change, sniffing for any hint, and snorted an uncertain laugh, “And what would that be?”

Her eyes darted nervously to John, but Sherlock drew her focus on him with another step. “ _That I am no Omega_.”

“Ridiculous,” she snarled, sniffing again just to find two strong Alpha scents. “James told me…”

“Moriarty lied to you,” Sherlock interrupted her. “He was aware of your bond. If I was an Alpha it would have shattered your relationship. He might have lost his best sniper. He used you.”

Retreating a step, she sniffed once again, trying to find any hint of a lie. “That’s impossible. I would have sensed it.”

“Would you?” There was one thing Mary already had pointed out, but now failed to observe – that Sherlock could be a master manipulator. He produced a wet tissue from his pocket, starting to wipe off the make-up to reveal his usual alabaster skin with no signs of sickness. “Dr. Gale injected me with a paralytic spiked with Morbus five days ago. Do I look ill to you?”

Mary’s eyes widened in shock. Her hands clutched her handbag even closer. “That’s impossible,” she husked again, her serene poise all but gone as realization dawned on her.

“Window dressing.” He held his hand with the now stained wet tissue out to her to prove himself. “I’m no Omega, Mary. I’m not ill, and I won’t die.” He waited for a dramatic pause and then wrinkled his nose. “Your plan failed.”

Mary’s breathing became shallow and her eyes darted over the cemetery, suddenly grasping the trap wherein Sherlock and John had been bait. Her mouth set into a grim line and she reached into her handbag to retrieve the gun, but John was quicker as he drew his Sig without blinking an eye. “Don’t!” He warned. She looked at her ex-husband, a weapon pointing at her with lethal determination. “There’s a whole SAS unit surrounding the cemetery ready to strike. Do you really want to do that?”

In the distance they heard the flapping thunder of rotor blades becoming louder. Black clad specialists drew nearer with their rifles at the ready. “If you grip your gun, they’ll open fire, Mary.” Sherlock tried to reason her.

Mary huffed an ironic laugh when tiny red dots danced across her head and chest. Her expression slipped and twisted with agony at the loss of her Omega so many years ago and her failure to deliver his vengeance. John shadowed her every motion until he saw that her laugh turned into a desperate sob.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, defeated. This world held nothing for her anymore – a barren female Alpha without Omega forfeited the only reason life presented her, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to grab her gun. She was no Moriarty in the end. Her sanity bit back with all its brutality and deep inside she already schemed a plan how to escape her impending imprisonment. At least, this wasn’t the first time.

She let her handbag slump into the grass with a thud, her hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. Mycroft’s voice sounded through their ear-plug, “Access now!” And then the helicopter came into view along with five SAS members encircling them.

Mary kicked the white leather half a meter away, waiting for a black clad man gripping her wrists and swirling her around to cuff her roughly. John lowered his own gun to the side, watching the whole scene through a tunnel view. Memories flooded his mind involuntarily – meeting Mary and falling in love with her, her helping him to overcome the tragic loss of his best friend, coming to this place to give him strength visiting the grave after such a long time once again, their marriage, her promise of a daughter. So many lies that still cut deeply like the bullet that hit Sherlock’s chest. His left shoulder twinged sympathetically at the pain Sherlock must have felt.

Hesitant fingers brushed against his knuckles, gingerly asking whether the touch was welcomed or not. The caress dragged John from the desolate past which found its definite end today. His eyes shifted up to behold empathetic pale blue, betraying such rare affection that he thought he would drown in them. He opened his clenched fist and their fingers interlaced. The warm touch grounded John again and he squeezed Sherlock’s hand in reassurance.

Around them several members of the SAS unit moved to secure the area, carefully inspecting the handbag which could also hide explosive material as well. The helicopter landed a few yards away, the wind sending undulating waves along the grass and bending the branches of nearby trees, tousling Sherlock’s mop of curls into a cloud of black softness. John cupped his neck and pulled him down, huddling their foreheads together and closing his eyes. They shut out the noises and just relished the brief moment of intimate relief. Words surrendered to their bond which spoke volumes as they saw red stars sparkling behind closed lids, forming a tight curtain like an aurora borealis. A content smile began to spread across John’s face.

“Well done,” Mycroft’s voice interrupted their bliss, his eyes glinting in amusement at their tenderness as they reluctantly broke apart. “We’ll take over from here.”

“What are you going to do with her now?” John asked, knowing that Mary was not a matter for New Scotland Yard.

“Interrogations. Investigations.” The older Holmes waved a dismissive hand for John not to worry. “When we have collected all the relevant evidence, she’ll face the charges for her crimes. What you have delivered today will be enough to lock her up for the rest of her life.”

John nodded once with a quick jerk, showing his approval. “Thanks for your help.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, obviously biting back a comment as his gaze fell on Sherlock and then dropped to their entwined hands. A secret smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Before Sherlock rolled his eyes, the older Holmes had already turned his back to them, resuming his work.

Squeezing Sherlock’s hand, John turned his back to the scene, ignoring Mary in her cuffs and excluding her from his life henceforth by doing so. “Let’s go home.” He would never forget what Mary had done to him – to _them_ , and confusing as it was, he couldn’t tell if he should hate her for her deeds or even be grateful. Without her plan, they would probably still be separated, or even worse, Sherlock might have died during his mission as Mycroft had predicted. A shudder ran down his spine, and he needed to remind himself of the very alive Omega standing beside him.

“Yes.” The reply glowed like fiery embers. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be July 16th, though it will be the last one containing a rather longish epilogue.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.


	18. At the End of the Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks goes to [JustBTrue2WhoUR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JustBTrue2WhoUR/pseuds/JustBTrue2WhoUR) and [GhostTari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari) for beta-reading and erasing my silly mistakes in this chapter.
> 
> And of course thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments! They’re making my day :)

“What does it say?” Sherlock’s impatient voice boomed through the living room to the kitchen where John dipped the indicator into the chemical composition stained blood.

John heard the long strides of bare feet padding back and forth. The detective’s blue dressing gown billowed like a storm cloud behind him, emphasizing each step with dramatic vexation.

“Just give me a second,” John murmured, watching how the white strip of paper tinted in several colors until it stopped in the middle with a purplish hue. The past five days, it never changed beyond that shade. He was glad that Mike ended up being right, and Sherlock was indeed healed from the virus. Only now, they weren’t using the dipsticks for security purposes anymore, they were checking for an increase in pekosterone. They checked on a daily basis, yet the strips never indicated the expected rise. Five days ago, Sherlock had consumed his final pill of the suppressants. As time ticked by, Sherlock became more and more irritated. His heat should have hit him two days ago, but even the slightest symptoms had failed to show up. Despite Sherlock’s agitated disquiet, which John considered to be normal for the consulting detective, he neither came up with elevated temperature nor cramps in his lower abdomen. Instead, he paced the flat back and forth, snapping at anybody who dared drop by.

A little worried about Sherlock’s condition, John called Mike for advice. His old friend didn’t seem to be too concerned given that Sherlock had taken contraceptives for almost twenty years. His estrus cycle might delay due to his suppressed natural hormone level. John sighed at the vagueness of such a statement. He had argued with Sherlock about leaving the flat for some minor cases when Lestrade called them this morning. Shaking his head vehemently, John had refused the request. Even the thought of his Omega leaving the flat just for a short walk to Tesco’s made his stomach tighten in knots. Of course, Sherlock had grumbled over John’s refusal and accused him of being overprotective.

John snapped from his contemplations with a start as Sherlock appeared in the kitchen, his eyebrows arched with the unspoken question. After inhaling deeply, John heaved a distraught sigh and slumped his shoulders. “No change.”

An unintelligible grunt rolled over the vocal chords of the detective. “God,” the word thundered through the room, reverberating in John’s chest. Sherlock crossed his arms, tugging his dressing gown together as if to protect himself from probing glances from his Alpha. “John,” he tried to reason his lover. “You can’t expect me to stay here forever. For all we know, I could be completely barren.” His hands gesticulated in a wild fashion to underline his rage against the world. “You cannot lock me away.”

“I’m not locking you away,” John declared, his voice with an edge of reproach. “You’ve been due for two days. That’s not very long, Sherlock. What if we go out for a case and suddenly symptoms hit you? Other Alphas might smell you.” He stopped to smother his own overwhelming feeling of possessiveness, but Sherlock sensed it through their bond nonetheless, colors exploding and getting brighter with each shade in the flat. “And don’t say that,” he added in a sad whisper, “That you might be barren.”

“Why, would that bother you?” Sherlock asked warily, but John just shook his head in the attempt to drop the subject. Yet the bond betrayed the reticent emotions once again. The sharp, scrunched up features of the detective softened at the realization. “John?”

“It’s not that I yearn for a toddler, Sherlock.” He had been there once. “I just can’t bear the thought of you being in a condition you might regret at some point of your life.” John had never considered raising children of his own. He had rather believed he could be an uncle someday, but since Harry was more devoted to alcohol than to her girlfriends, he put by the notion. However, when Sherlock revealed him Mary’s alleged pregnancy at his wedding, his whole life had shifted. With the sudden prospect of being a father a new perception presented itself, and as months ticked by, he even grew keen on the idea. He didn’t want children now, but back then he had realized that things might change at some point of your life.

For a long moment, Sherlock looked at John. They had never discussed that particular aspect of Sherlock’s anatomy, his ability to conceive children. The detective had always regarded being an Omega as a burden. A slave to his hormones forcing him into a new cycle every four weeks, beginning with the blurring images of a heat which he fell victim to – an _inconvenience_. “John,” he spoke, calm and quiet. “I’ve never seen my future with children.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he blurted, a bit forlorn at how to explain his feelings. “That is not what I meant.” He shoved the petri dish with the dipstick away, scraping the chair over the tiles of the kitchen floor to stand up. “What I mean is, I do care if something’s not right with your health. Not because I might want a child in the future, but because I want you to finally accept who you are. And speaking so carelessly about your well-being still makes my skin crawl.”

Memories of the recent events popped into Sherlock’s mind and he still sensed the tension in John when it came to his health situation. Sherlock’s hunched shoulders sagged further in defeat, his defenses falling down as he realized that he was talking to his partner about such a sensitive topic and not to Mycroft, where he always concealed his true self. He disentangled his arms from in front of his chest, his dressing gown rustling as the fabric slid back in a smooth motion, yet the creases of his gray shirt underneath clung to his slender frame. “I wanted to get my point across.” His voice lowered to a whisper, afraid that John indeed might have sought another life – afraid that John might consider leaving him if he envisioned his future differently.

_Yellow_ shades pulsed at the corner of John’s eyes as anxiety muffled his mind. With quick steps, he crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders to reassure him. He rested his chin in the crook between his lover’s shoulder and neck, inhaling the sweet natural fragrance. “Don’t worry, love,” he husked, his breath humid against Sherlock’s clothing. “Mary planted the notion of a child on me. A promise she broke after several months of me adapting to the thought of a little daughter. Of course I grieved for the loss of such a promise, yet the perfidy stung more. It took me a while to realize and accept my own fallacious lie as I felt guilty about a life that never was. But in the end, I was relieved, even grateful because I can’t envision my life with a child. It doesn’t go well with what _we_ do.”

Sherlock’s head dropped to John’s shoulder, the mark of their bond hidden beneath several layers of fabric. His hand came up and raked through the soft cropped hair, relishing the tickling sensation against his pads. “Either way, I’d be a terrible parent.”

John huffed a fond laugh. “No, you’d do great. With you, children would be allowed to experiment everything, make their own experiences whereas other parents would stop the creativity of their offspring due to doubts of what society expect from them.” Another laugh rumbled through their aligned chests. “You’d probably drive me mad with that.”

That broke the spell for Sherlock, and a giggle bubbled up his throat. “Until they mess with my sock index.”

John’s snicker turned into full laughter, “Alright. Stop it now.” He cupped Sherlock’s face, thumbs stroking over defined cheekbones as he pulled him down to let their foreheads smack together. Their blue eyes met in an earnest gaze. “Just give it another couple of days before you blow the flat in search for my gun.”

Sherlock’s laughter subsided at the prospect of a budding boredom, but the small crinkle around his eyes stayed, warming John in his stomach. “I will.” He breathed the words before the stolen oxygen between their lips dissolved into a relieved kiss.

Absorbed in the bliss to banish their concerns, they missed hearing the frequent taps of an umbrella approaching from the landing. “Oh please, do feel disturbed.” Mycroft sighed affronted at the sight of shared intimacy and pinched the bridge of his nose.

John, still not used to the thought that the man who led an SAS unit might want to defend the virtues of his little brother, stepped hastily back from Sherlock. While the Alpha’s ears burnt in scarlet, the younger Holmes glowered at Mycroft. Sherlock grabbed John’s left hand, interlaced their fingers to prove his point. “Couldn’t you call?” _Blue_ annoyance wafted through their bond.

“Since you prefer to text it doesn’t make a difference, so I dropped by.” A false smile tugged shortly at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “I’m here to share some news which might be of interest to you.”

“About Mary?” John looked at the older Holmes expectantly.

“Yes,” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella since his host neither offered a seat nor tea. A disapproving purse flickered over his lips. “Her trial will start next week – a private hearing without the press. The prosecution demands life imprisonment. Even though we still can’t prove how deep her roots ran with Moriarty, the abetment in murdering those Omegas and Alphas will certainly be adequate for that sentence.”

John swallowed the lump off his throat and nodded determined. “Good.”

“I was too occupied the day of her arrest –” Mycroft continued, unimpressed by John’s emotional outburst, “– but after analyzing the audio material I realized that you haven’t told me the truth.” Pointed blue eyes bored into John accusingly, then his gaze drifted to his younger brother. “You’ve been infected with Morbus by Dr. Gale. This wasn’t just a façade to lure Mary out of her safe house. Samantha Gale had killed the Omegas she treated. Why would she stop with you?”

Although his tone betrayed a rhetorical question Sherlock was compelled to reply, his voice sullen and with a hint of defiance. “If you’d have known of my infection you’d have locked me away.”

“Of course I would have locked you away.” Rare anger mingled with the words rushing from Mycroft’s mouth, “You’re ill.” Another reproachful glance shot to John, implying that the Alpha doctor failed to comprehend the depth of his careless actions.

John, pride wounded, rolled his shoulders to straighten his back in front of the tall man, “He’s not ill. Not anymore.”

There was a flabbergasted expression on the usually cool countenance of Mycroft Holmes. “How?”

“Um…” John struggled for words of how to explain the delicate matter. “We – that means Mike Stamford, Sherlock and I – found out that a certain bacterium only found in the mouth cavity of an Alpha actually destroys the virus.”

“And how did the bacterium come to be in the system of my little brother?” Mycroft squinted askance.

“Er…” John cleared his voice, but Sherlock stepped protectively in front of his Alpha.

“Certainly you can put two and two together, dear brother mine.” Sherlock sneered and enjoyed the slipping features of the older Holmes.

Mycroft drew a deep breath in the hope of regaining his composure along with his sarcasm. “Mummy will be delighted.”

“For sure,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, continuing the silly feud between them to exchange another derogatory remark.

Mycroft understood that since John laid claim to Sherlock, he as his elder Alpha brother had no right to interfere with Omega-related issues anymore. Yet he couldn’t help to shot John a warning glare. “So I take it that Mr. Stamford will be granted the Nobel Prize this year.”

John stifled a giggle at the thought of how both Holmes’ brothers were thinking alike, yet would never acknowledge the fact. “We hope. Mike’s help was invaluable for us, and now the world has found a cure.”

The older Holmes nodded and his eyes returned to Sherlock, scrutinizing his every feature. “If my memory serves me you should have consumed your last contraceptive five days ago?”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t care to elaborate his unchanged condition.

Mycroft sniffed imperceptibly, trying to make out any shift in the Omega’s natural scent. “So?”

Since Sherlock scowled at his Alpha brother, sulking about not wanting to explain such private details, John took up the subject. “I called Mike. It’s not unusual for Omegas who have taken suppressants for such a long time to wait a little longer for their estrus cycle to start.”

Piercing eyes darted between the couple as Mycroft pursed his lips pensively. Whatever he observed, it made obvious the adverse emotional reaction of expounding the topic. A nod accompanied his decision, “All right, I leave you to it then.” His look rested on the other Alpha, conveying something unspoken. “John, will you show me out?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and exhaled an exuberant sigh. His brother could find the way to the front door on his own, but he knew any argument with Mycroft would remain futile. He relinquished John’s hand and strode past his older brother, heading for the desk in the living room. “Blud.”

John followed the taller Alpha down the stairs with reluctance. Somehow, he expected a lecture about treating Mycroft’s younger brother nicely otherwise he would have to explain the sudden compromising material on his laptop or something similar.

Mycroft stayed silent until they met the dimly lit entrance hall where he turned around before opening the front door. With a scrutinizing gaze, he ran his eyes up and down the blond Alpha. John held his gaze, unflinching. After a while, Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, but then seemed to reconsider his strategy, leaning heavily on his umbrella instead. “John,” he sighed, “Have you ever met an Omega in heat?”

With widening eyes, John stared bewildered at the older Holmes brother. He hadn’t anticipated _this_ question and after a moment of adjusting his inner turmoil, John realized the burden of care for Sherlock beyond these words. “Erm…” He stuttered.

“Well, I have,” Mycroft interrupted the awkward self-declaration. “You see logical rationality gives way to illogical behavior. My brother’s genius intellect prevents too much of a detriment, but he will use his manipulative expertise to get what he wants. It’s been almost twenty years now, but I will never forget how he went out of his mind over his –“ he waved his hand in the struggle to find the accurate words, “ – over his _physical needs_.”

John snorted a small laugh, incredulous at having this kind of conversation with Mycroft Holmes. “I suppose I know what you mean.” He tried to smooth down the undulating waves of such a precarious topic.

“I daresay you don’t,” Mycroft’s words cut like the sharp blade of a knife. He pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing a deep breath. “What I want to say is that you can’t lock him away. The walls of 221B won’t serve as the necessary protection if he truly wants to get out.”

A slight anger crept up John’s spine at the misconception of his younger brother’s behavior all those years ago. “You’ve locked him away in the middle of a heat. What did you expect?” It was a rhetorical question, and before Mycroft felt inclined to answer it with a tetchy remark John continued confidently, “He has me now. I protect him.”

Another quiet moment stretched between the two Alphas each trying to outnumber the other with overprotective reasons. Mycroft shifted his weight once again, “And how long do you think can you confine my brother within these walls? If his estrus cycle is indeed that uncertain, how long will you keep him from his precious Work? How long will you prevent him from leaving the security of this flat?”

“Um…” John recognized what Mycroft was referring to. After all, he had that conversation with Sherlock just half an hour ago. His mouth parched with the lack of arguments.

“I own a small isle with a cottage on it,” Mycroft began hesitantly. “It’s along the west coast of Scotland. I could arrange a private trip to the isle. In light of recent events, I think you both are in desperate need of a break.” He swung his hand with a flourish, “Let’s call it a holiday. Sherlock would be safe there, unable to run the streets at the brink of a hormonal outburst which could attract unwanted attention.”

When Mycroft’s meaning dawned on him, John creased his brows, weighing his proposal. “Yet it stays a self-imposed prison. You’re just expanding the range of the bars.”

“The isle once belonged to my grandmother. Sherlock visited her as a child and liked it. You see, our grandmother was very fond of bees.” A genuine smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “At the age of ten, Sherlock nurtured a fascination in social hierarchies within apiaries and thus spent several weeks on the isle.” He paused to let that private information sink in, giving John a pointed look. “Ask him. Will you?”

With an almost imperceptible nod, John ducked his head. He realized that Mycroft Holmes as the older Alpha brother asked John this favor, entrusting his younger Omega brother to the safe keeping of John. It reflected some rare amount of trust toward each other. “I will.”

At this, Mycroft dipped his head to bid his goodbye and opened the door, brisk air invading the dense warmth of the hallway. The crispness created a fresh wave of clarity, and John felt suddenly utter gratitude for the older Holmes.

***

Two days later, they stowed their suitcases into the trunk of a black Jaguar. Mycroft’s men had received orders to take them to the abandoned isle. The limousine brought them to a small airport where a private Cessna Citation already waited to fly them as far as Glasgow.

Mycroft ensured that all the people with whom they would have contact with were only Betas. John remained a bit piqued at the thought of being outside of the safe walls of 221B, but Sherlock still hadn’t shown any symptoms of heat. They had stopped bothering to test the Omega’s blood. Since Morbus didn’t pose a danger for Sherlock anymore, the consistent results made them all the more tense.

From Glasgow they were taken by helicopter. Traveling west southwards, they soon encountered the deep blue of the Firth of Clyde. The water stretched endlessly into the west, framed by the rocky shores of bigger islands at the northern horizon. The afternoon sun shone brightly, sparkling the stormy blue with thousands of tiny silvery reflections.

Sherlock’s shoulder pressed against John while his large hand cupped his Alpha’s knee to gain attention over the thunderstorm of rotor blades. John followed the direction of Sherlock’s index finger pointing outward to an emerging dot in the distance.

The islet stood like a huge flat rock amidst the dark blue rippling water. Its landscape stretched over five hundred hectares, raised several meters over the sea level. At the east coast was a rocky staircase arranged, leading down to a steep stony shore, the only way to meet the cold ocean.

Amidst the green trees and grass coated isle, they spotted a place for the helicopter to touch down. Just a few meters north spread the property of Sherlock’s grandmother along with a two-storied cottage built of rust colored bricks. The overgrown garden along the patio implied that no Holmes’ family member had visited this calm spot of land for quite a while.

The pilot handed them their suitcases and explained that he would drop by the next morning to bring fresh water and more food which he would leave at the drop off. When his passengers were out of range he started the engine again to take off. John watched the helicopter rise high enough to cross the small pine forest adjacent to the cottage, the strong twigs whipped around by the wind of the rotor blades. The crisp breeze from the ocean made John pull his jacket tighter and close the zipper up to his throat. In the opposite direction he could see as far as the horizon, marveling at how the sun kissed the glistening waterfront as it set for the evening.

The muffled rumble of the rollers on Sherlock’s suitcase over the grass dragged him back, and John trailed after his friend toward the house. There was no fence defining the property. John let his eyes roam to the borders of the pine grove, not fifty meters away, to behold two beehives, squarely built within the undulating green of knee-high grass. It seemed that spring had already found its way into the flora, despite the isle standing so far north.

“It’s beautiful,” John whispered at the stark contrast to London.

Sherlock followed John’s glance to the apiaries. “My grandmother loved bees. She brought them here since the isle’s not their natural habitat. But it worked.”

John hummed, “Mycroft told me about the apiaries.”

“Since no one’s living here anymore the bees are no doubt long gone.” A dreamy almost sad longing underlined Sherlock’s voice as he gazed at the hives in the distance until he snapped back. “Come on, we need to get the house warm, otherwise it’ll be a cold night.”

The cottage itself wasn’t very big. The living room and kitchen filled the ground level while on the first floor they found a small study decorated in Victorian style, a bedroom and a bathroom. White blankets covered the furniture in the rooms to prevent dust invading the closets and drawers. All in all, the cottage looked neat and clean despite the absence of an inhabitant. But Sherlock ended up being right about the creeping chill within the old brick walls. They needed to settle the oil heating in the annex and then kindle a fire in the living room fireplace. Luckily, they found several dried logs beside the mantle, so John got down to work building a fire in the grate while Sherlock headed for the annex.

The maintenance took them three hours to make the old cottage habitable. Electricity started the fridge buzzing with coldness again, and John stuffed the food they brought into it. After dinner, they sat in front of the hearth as it was the warmest place of the house at the moment. John recognized that the two worn chesterfield armchairs in front of the mantle appeared like a mirror image of 221B. They had arranged the chairs across from each other in order to entangle their cold feet into the niche between armrests and hips, relishing the radiating warmth of each other’s legs.

The flames licked along the logs, now and then cracking dried wood into pieces. Orange light threw long shadows into the room while the night painted the sky outside black with thousands of stars, studding a translucent curtain across the Milky Way. A sudden grunt made John look up from his book in his lap as Sherlock fumbled indignantly with his laptop. “Can you believe this? Almost no Wi-Fi available here.” He shut the laptop pointedly, “How will I be able to answer my emails?”

John stifled an amused chuckle. “We agreed to that sort of vacation for at least one week, Sherlock. Your emails can wait.” He cast a glance at the shelves along the emerald green silken wallpaper where hundreds of books framed the living room. “I’m sure you’ll find something else to occupy your massive intellect.”

The hint of sarcasm didn’t slip Sherlock’s attention, and he scowled at John for several minutes, sulking, before getting up. “Since there’s nothing else to do I might just as well go to bed.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock shuffled upstairs. John stayed behind, gazing into the dancing flames – a mesmerizing play of fire consuming wood. “So far for a romantic evening in front of the mantle,” he sighed, putting his leather-bound book onto the nearby coffee table. He knew after the suggestion of leaving 221B for a week, he couldn’t expect the agitated nature of his lover to dwindle quickly, even if Sherlock had consented to the plan. His hands braced on the armrests and he pushed himself up. It had been a long day and some rest would do them well. Casting one last look at the chimney, he considered that the fire would burn low safely by morning and leave the living room in a cozy warmth. The oil heating made the heaters in the house crackle slightly, indicating the long disuse. Since the damp coldness still lingered within the old brick walls John decided for a quick wash in the bathroom before following Sherlock under the thick duvet, cuddling closer for warmth and comfort.

***

Sleep still clung to Sherlock, pressing him heavily into the soft mattress which smelled of long forgotten memories – the never-ending humming of the bees in the garden, the sweet perfume of his grandmother and the almost musty smell of the house with its old wooden furniture. He shivered, realizing that he had kicked the duvet off his torso. A slight sheen of sweat coated his back up to his shoulders, and he noticed that they hadn’t switched off the heater in the bedroom the evening before. The room had become so unbearably warm and dry that even his nostrils ached with each breath. Tiny beads of sweat framed his neck at the hairline. Yet the warmth of the room draping over him was unable to make him comfortable. He tugged the duvet over his shoulder, only to realize that it was too hot beneath the bedding. A fresh swell of heat seeped through his pores and he broke into perspiration.

Groaning at his futile effort, his drowsiness tore him more and more over the brink to wakefulness. His body followed of its own volition, and Sherlock stretched the stiffness out of his limbs, raking his fingers through sweat-slicked hair. He blinked at the through navy blue curtains dimmed light. With the sun already risen, a bright gleam outlined the window promising a beautiful day.

Sherlock turned his face to John who was still sound asleep. His features slackened when tendrils of consciousness loosened its grip, smoothing his weathered lines. A slight pang of guilt washed over Sherlock for being so rude the evening before. He knew that John had proposed the trip as a diversion; not only to get Sherlock out of London, but also to get him out of his racing mind. His Alpha meant well for Sherlock, yet a nagging fear lingered in the back of the detective’s skull. What if it didn’t work?

The reason for his agitation wasn’t his inability to enjoy a life outside of London, but the suspense of not knowing what would happen next. He hated waiting – it felt like imprisonment, and his body betrayed him by being the prison cell. How long should he wait? Another hot wave crashed against his chest, holding the Omega in a tight grip as the warmth submerged him; not the unpleasant rush of cold perspiration, but the heartwarming thought of John trying to help Sherlock.

He rolled onto his back, the sweat sticking to the sheets and he wrinkled his nose at the filthy sensation. One last glance at John deep in his dreams set his chest ablaze, yet he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Cautiously, he tiptoed out of the bedroom, grabbing his dressing gown to head for the bathroom.

A shower would invigorate his mind and dissipate the paralyzing lethargy of subliminal fear. He turned the tap on, waited a moment to adjust the warmth and then stepped into the spray. A small gasp escaped him when he realized that it wasn’t yet hot enough. Not until steam billowed into the thin air did Sherlock tip his head back, relishing in the intensifying caresses of the tiny droplets drumming down his sweat coated body. He closed his eyes, focusing on the overwhelming sensation as the water wheedled his muscles into relaxation. The small grooves of his physique’s landscape built rivulets to tickle down his oversensitive skin. A content sigh rumbled in his throat as his body revived. Yet the fearful notion lingered, refused to get washed away. Sherlock knew that John wouldn’t mind not having children, but the thought of Sherlock being not complete would leave him hurting – not for himself, but for his Omega. That was why he had been so shocked at Sherlock’s rather matter-of-fact remark. And since this discussion, Sherlock’s fear had increased.

He remembered the one heat he experienced at age seventeen as hazy snapshots of pain, emptiness and incompleteness – something he wanted to avoid henceforth, at all costs. Once he finally understood that even Victor couldn’t fill the void of this vast emptiness, he broke with him. Sherlock had never bothered to search for something to help him overcome this loneliness. Instead he suppressed his self with contraceptives and focused on filling his mind, ignoring the desires of his heart for years to come. But now he had John – John, who kept the unbroken faith in him to eventually find a way and create an unbreakable bond. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock truly feared the loss of his self – the loss of an essential part of his being. As much as he loathed being an Omega, a yearning manifested in his inner core, a yearning to share those moments of utmost intimacy with his Alpha. He wanted to share his heat with the man he loved most in the world, hoping to finally conquer the emptiness and close the gap to irresistible and boundless trust.

At that overwhelming awareness, the steaming bathroom suddenly became too dense. The feeling pressed so tight on his chest that breathing became painful and shallow and flashes of heat seared him. He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower stall. Goose bumps rippled his skin as he opened the window a crack and crisp air embraced his flesh. He grabbed a towel and rubbed himself dry, ignoring the desperate need to clean his teeth and disentangle the damp knots of his curls. Instead, he whipped on his favorite blue dressing gown.

The stuffy air of the bathroom left his body overheated, so he padded downstairs half-naked, pondering whether he wanted tea or coffee for breakfast. He flicked the kettle and listened to the silence in the cottage. His shower didn’t seem not to have caused a stirring upstairs that meant John was still enjoying the softness of the bed. An absent gaze out the kitchen window revealed him the two beehives in the distance. Curiosity lurked beneath his surface, and shedding no further thought he decided to have a closer look until the water boiled.

Brisk morning air enveloped him in a cool curtain, easing down his elevated temperature. He trudged barefoot through the cold damp grass. The culms prickled under his soles, and another gush of fresh waking filled his body with a vibrant consciousness that left him feeling more alive than ever. The nearer he drew the more he remembered the endless humming of the bees. Their social structures within the colony had been so fascinating that it had influenced him for the rest of his life. He opened the roof made of steel sheet and was a bit disappointed as he detected only the small remnants of old hardened honeycombs.

Fingers tentatively brushed over the distinct texture. His grandmother had always been a strong and clever woman, who loved the life in a metropolis like London. But after his grandfather’s death she had chosen to withdraw to a calmer place.

The last couple of weeks had left Sherlock lost deep in thought more than once; reflecting not only the recent cases, but also the future. He loved his Work and knew that he would be the consulting detective until he couldn’t anymore. Yet at the same time, he realized that he didn’t want his grandmother’s fate for John and deep inside he decided that at some point in his life he would leave London with John to find a peaceful spot of land for themselves.

“There you are.” John’s voice cut through the cold wind, drowning out the rustling of the nearby pine grove. Sherlock replaced the roof and looked up to find a shivering Alpha clinging to his terry robe desperately to shut out the chilly breeze. “Jesus. Aren’t you freezing?”

John’s presence mingled with his wind-borne scent. The fragrance whispered down Sherlock’s spine like molten heat, mottling his pale skin in pink shades. He turned around to greet John, the images at the corners of his eyes pulsing in bleary colors. “I’m fine.”

John reached for the lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown, pulling it tighter around his hips. “Are you wearing anything underneath?” he asked in disbelief, already knowing the answer. Raising on his toes to kiss his lover, John stopped abruptly, eyes widening as deep musky pheromones reached his olfactory sense. The impact was immediate on both sides as John’s biochemistry reacted, unleashing a whole cocktail of his own Alpha pheromones and complementing the blurry swirl of subliminal perception. His hand came up, a curious finger tracing the long neck of his Omega, sweeping over tiny beads of sweat. The heat beneath John’s pad tickled his calloused skin, the light caress flashing through his hand into his arm and sending hot blood pumping further to his inner core, scorching his whole being as colors exploded in his peripheral vision.

Their bond reverberated with such intensity that Sherlock sensed the heat rushing through John, pooling into his lower abdomen. Small tendrils raked through the Omega’s groin, coiling until slight cramps tightened his stomach into unpleasant knots. A deep groan rumbled through his throat, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if those knots indeed created an inconvenience or otherwise fueled a passionate ache.

Surprised at the sudden effect, John withdrew his hand from the enticing blushed flesh of Sherlock’s neck. “Oh my God,” he gasped. “You’re so hot.”

“I know,” Sherlock slurred, a mischievous grin tugging at his mouth as he bent down to trace John’s ear with the breathed words.

John could barely regain his composure, but stepped back to look into the hazy mercurial eyes of his Omega. “No, I mean you have a fever.”

“It’s common,” Sherlock mumbled, following John’s movement, his large hands trapping the hips of his Alpha. His lips closed around the carotid to palpate the elevated pulse beneath, speaking against cooler skin, “Can you feel the heat?”

A nippy morning breeze wafted over the knee-high grass. The green prickled against their calves while the brisk air surged upward, creeping into their clothes causing a ripple of goose bumps. Sherlock aligned his body with John’s, pressing himself flat against the Alpha. Despite the cold, heat radiated in pulsing currents from him and warmed John. “Yes, I can,” John rasped after a moment, concentrating hard in order to not lose any sense of conscious mind as pheromones, heat and a reverberating colorful bond made him light-headed. The sheer sensation of it was intoxicating. Only when he saw the sheen of sweat coating the exposed crook of Sherlock’s neck, he forced his brain to work. “You need to get into the house. Maybe you don’t sense the chill, but your body does.”

Reluctantly they broke apart with John reaching for Sherlock’s hand to guide him toward the house. Another grunt escaped Sherlock’s lips as the incandescence manifested in his lower abdomen, flames licking through his body, spreading in an irresistible riptide. A hand flew to his stomach, pressing hard against the searing feeling, and his knees buckled at the hypersensitivity. John caught him by the elbow, bracing his weight with gentle hands as he could see that each touch to the reddened skin left a vulnerable pain echoing through their bond. “I never assumed that it would hit me so fast,” Sherlock’s baritone mumbled breathlessly as he focused on his gait, ignoring the ache in his stomach.

John cursed under his breath as he dragged his Omega across the small garden to the sanctuary of the cottage. Although they had settled the house for inhabitants, they hadn’t spent a single thought about the upcoming heat which left them completely unprepared.

They entered through the backdoor into the kitchen, the kettle all but forgotten and the water cooled down again. John kicked the door shut with his foot while Sherlock grabbed for the counter to steady his balance. Several seconds ticked by to acclimate themselves to the warmth of the house. Sherlock ran a hand through his slicked-down curls, cold sweat trickling down his spine, gluing the dressing gown to his slender frame.

John swallowed hard at the mere sight of his lover in this heated state. Pheromones whirled closer around them now that they were confined to within the walls. Sherlock’s eyes sought John’s as the air became dense and thick. Their breaths began to mingle in sharp gasps as the back and forth of the endless vortex of sensation stirred a faint arousal beneath the fiery surface. John’s stormy blue had receded to an eclipse while shiny darkness succumbed to his fogged gaze. He tried desperately to regain control, clearing his voice. “Do you… um… want breakfast first?” It was a stupid question, he acknowledged, but all he remembered about heats at the moment was that it could become exhausting.

A slow smile stretched across Sherlock’s lips, amused at the care of his far-seeing Alpha. “No,” he pushed himself from the edge of the counter, every movement inflaming a new swell of molten blood coiling through his abdomen. “I want you.” He bunched his fists into the lapels of John’s terry robe, yanking him close to bury his nose into the crook between shoulder and neck, sniffing and licking the tart Alpha fragrance. A guttural sound rolled over Sherlock’s vocal chords, and John’s eyes fluttered shut, overcome by the animalistic gesture.

Sherlock’s tongue roamed wetly upward to suck in an earlobe. He had pinned John effectively against the door, pressing his lean form against his Alpha while his burgeoning erection became more and more prominent with each passing second. The heat was inebriating, electrifying his every nerve and prompting his hairs to stand upright. He felt as though he would scorch from his inner core to burn his flesh if he couldn’t melt into John. So he surged his frame against his lover, desperately seeking the blissful release until the heat became unbearable.

While Sherlock’s teeth scraped along John’s jawline to his alluring lips, an impatient groan evaporating into the Alpha’s mouth, Sherlock loosened the ribbon of his own belt and let the silky fabric slide from his shoulders to relish the cooler air. But it didn’t help as the heat just licked its relentless flames up his body, painting the alabaster canvas with a delicate pink.

John gasped as Sherlock grazed his mouth along his bottom lip, sucking it in and brushing his tongue over the sensitive flesh. The Omega’s swift hands started to work at the belt of John’s terry robe while the Alpha surrendered, lost in the rush of pheromones and stimulation. His hands came up to Sherlock’s softer flanks, rubbing up and down the smooth skin to rest them on the sharp crests of his hipbones. He yanked him closer, mimicking Sherlock’s gesture and the desire to melt into each other – to become one entity.

Their bond exploded in a red firework behind closed lids. John knew that mere touches wouldn’t grant them the much needed bliss, but he couldn’t find the words to express his wish. He was too drunk on Sherlock’s scent and taste as the Omega probed his tongue past his lips to stroke it firmly with his own. The fever exuding from the naked man burned against his cooler skin, and where the heat became a tender caress under bared skin, he felt consumed by fire. Fiery tendrils seared through his flesh, pumping hot blood to his crotch. His hands snapped to Sherlock’s arse, gripping hard to grind his straining cock against the Omega’s likewise erection. A long deep groan escaped into Sherlock’s mouth as he sucked at his tongue.

“Oh God, Sherlock, I swear if we won’t get upstairs to the bedroom right now we’ll have to deal with the floor here.” He released his tight grip, slick fluid covering his fingers. Instead, his palms rested at the narrow waist again, pushing ever so gently to emphasize his meaning. “And I’m too bloody old for the floor.” Sherlock’s forehead pressed against John’s and a sound similar to a whimper bubbled in his throat as he bit his bottom lip. The unfamiliar sound coiled through John in a fresh tide of protectiveness. Every step, every motion, every single thought seemed to be too much, and John found himself almost giving in to his nature, relenting to their need. But reason gained the upper hand as he remembered that he had left the condoms in the drawer of the nightstand. The awareness snapped him back to reality, to a conscious mind. His hands stroked over Sherlock’s flexing torso to cup his face as he steeled his voice with determination, “Upstairs.”

The resolve in John reflected through the bond. Reluctantly, Sherlock withdrew his sweat coated forehead. His body buzzed with exhilarated heat. He swallowed too much saliva from his mouth and nodded, clasping John’s dominant hand to drag him across the kitchen for the stairs in the hallway. The gesture mimicked John’s earlier guidance back to the cottage. Sherlock tried his best to ignore the queasy sensation caused by the cramps in his stomach. Much as his mind was clouded by his physical need, John had maintained his stoic will to draw him back to reality. Those were the rare qualities in John Watson he appreciated above all; where Sherlock failed to accomplish, his friend and lover – his _Alpha_ – complemented him and vice versa.

His long fingers curled around the compact structure of John’s hand, squeezing reassurance and vigor through the gesture. He moved his supple body delicately up the stairs, the pallor of his skin contrasting with the dark furnishing of the cottage.

John’s eyes lingered on the mesmerizing sway of Sherlock’s hips in front of him as the Omega directed him to the bedroom. A mischievous smile played at the Alpha’s lips as he enjoyed the view of a well-shaped arse, glistening a bit along the cleft with the evidence of his arousal. By instinct, John grabbed a handful of a firm curve, pulling Sherlock back into the embrace. Their lips collided once again while John squeezed and dipped his fingers into the damp heat between the cheeks. His lover gasped, and John tilted his head to let their tongues dance in a mutual waltz.

Sherlock began to squirm with impatience, and John recognized the small convulsions rippling his lover’s frame. As a physician he had learned that an Omega’s heat could become unbearable at some point with the lack of an Alpha, respectively an Alpha’s knot. The heady fever caused by the increase of pekosterone threatened to consume the body with abdominal cramps – real pain that left Sherlock so vulnerable in his youth.

“Take off your clothes,” Sherlock mumbled, using all his strength to suppress the rising scorch raking up his spine.

John stepped back to shrug out of his robe. Swiftly, he pulled the white shirt over his head and let his pajama bottoms pool around his feet. Although the room had the right temperature, a small shiver devoured John’s body; not because of the cool air, but due to the anticipation that left him in the same heady state as Sherlock. For a long moment they just stared at each other as though they were seeing themselves naked for the first time. A tingle spread in John’s cock under the scrutinizing gaze of Sherlock. “Um…” he cleared his voice, fighting the urge to cover himself. “How do you want us to…?”

Hungrily, Sherlock lurched forward, closing the gap between them with one stride and let their body heat mingle. His large hand palmed John’s jutting erection, wantonly stroking the length. He leaned forward to press his mouth to John’s ear, husking the reply. “From behind.”

His thumb rested at the small knob, the protruding tissue at the base of John’s cock, pressing ever so slightly to evoke a snap of his Alpha’s hips. “Alright,” John panted.

Sherlock rolled his tongue over luscious lips, retreating a step, and John winced at the loss of warmth. He kicked the duvets off the bed and lay flat on his stomach, the gesture a clear invitation for John to follow him.

John watched the flushed skin against the whiteness of the sheets. Electrifying impulses flashed through his every sensitive nerve, setting his whole being ablaze with the fiery need to give Sherlock what his body craved for. Absent-mindedly, he realized that these were the first sparks of a rut, paralyzing his sanity. He noticed the shudders trembling up and down his Omega’s frame when Sherlock begged, “John please…”

This broke the spell for John and he snapped back to reality, looking down his own body. The flushed head of his cock was already leaking the evidence of his desire. He realized how careful they must be and wrote a mental note to procure Alpha contraceptives for the next heat. It was simply too dangerous to get lost in the blurry swirl of pheromones and not focus on other things. So he padded around the bed to the nightstand. Sherlock tossed his head to follow John with a clouded gaze, panting through his parted lips. Ripping the packet apart, John unrolled the condom designed for an Alpha’s special anatomy. He hissed under his breath as he adjusted the latex along his thickened length. Sherlock’s nostril’s flared sympathetically and once again his tongue wetted his dried lips.

When John considered everything safe, he crawled onto the bed and straddled Sherlock’s thighs. Below him the Omega began to roll his hips into the mattress, quite without shame, seeking friction that wouldn’t bring him release – only John could do that. So the Alpha bent down, nuzzling his nose against the lumbar dip above the cleft, inhaling deeply. The Omega’s scent hung thick and sweet in the air, eliciting a guttural rumble in John’s throat. He dipped his tongue into the beginning of Sherlock’s crack, licking the shiny fluid which had spread due to John’s kneading fingers earlier. A long sonorous groan escaped both men, and Sherlock buckled at the stimulation. “John,” he muffled his plea, biting his forearm.

“I know,” John moaned empathically. “Sorry.” Although he understood that a heat dictated them the rhythm instead of relishing tender caresses, he couldn’t help it. So he licked his tongue upward along the distinct landscape of Sherlock’s spine until he reached the damp curls framing his ear. “Lift your arse,” John sucked the lobe in and let his teeth graze over the soft flesh.

When Sherlock struggled for balance beneath John to push his weight onto his knees, John’s hand curled around the narrow hips to support the motion, his cock pressing against his Omega’s body. Another ragged groan evaporated into thin air as they adjusted their position. Sherlock’s hand blindly reached behind to grip John’s thigh to brace himself. John hissed at the bruising grasp and eased the fingers off his leg. Instead, he kissed the knuckles and guided the hand to the bed’s dark cherry headboard. “Hold onto here,” he crooned once again into Sherlock’s ear while his other hand repeated the gesture and placed Sherlock’s second hand beside the first around the smooth edge of the headboard.

John’s torso pressed against the back of Sherlock, heat and a sheen of sweat gluing them together. He trailed several kisses accompanied by savoring licks back to the long pale neck, his palms stroking down the Omega’s arms. The tickling sensation of the sparse body hair flashed tawdriness through John’s fingers, translating the caress into a colorful outburst. His hands traced the lithe muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders, making him wriggle under the touch. Sherlock had buried his face into his arms, holding onto the headboard for his dear life and growling sharply. “Stop teasing me, John.”

The snarl prompted a grin across John’s mouth as he snaked his arms around Sherlock’s chest, pressing once again firmer on the Omega’s back. His pads brushed over pebbled nipples, evoking another breathless gasp. It was indeed hypnotizing how responsive Sherlock’s body had become; quite a contrast to the detective’s much-cited transport. But before his exploration wound up in torture, he released the oversensitive buds with a pinch to let his hands roam further down over flexing abdominal muscles. John felt the heavy swelling and falling due to Sherlock’s shallow panting.

Before he knew it, John’s fingers bumped into the protruding erection of his Omega, the silky head twitching at the touch. He curled his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, giving his length one lascivious stroke. A deep groan rumbled through his lover’s throat as he arched his back and pressed his arse into John’s groin. “Do you need any preparation?” John asked, a bit uncertain about the difference of intercourse during a heat.

Sherlock replied with yet another push of his arse against John’s length, trapping his cock in the damp heat of his cleft. “No,” he groaned. “Just fuck me already.”

A little astonished by the profane wording John wasn’t used to with Sherlock, he pulled back a fraction. His hand glided back down to the small of Sherlock’s back, massaging the flushed skin with tender strokes. Usually the detective avoided bad language and denounced the habit as lack of knowledge for more sophisticated words. John was all the more surprised at how much it turned him on, and a playful grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He released his trapped erection from Sherlock to align their bodies, his hand gripping the base of his shaft. The knot had swollen to a moderate size now, and for a fleeting moment he worried how he would get it past the taut muscle of Sherlock’s entrance. In front of him Sherlock pressed impatiently back against his flushed head, growling and hissing. And then, with a gentle push John eased his way through the dampness into an all-consuming heat. He gasped amazed at how open Sherlock was already, how easily he slipped into his Omega’s body which unveiled the perfect design for John.

The moisture spread along John’s length as he pulled out and pushed in with deliberate thrusts, watching, mesmerized, at how his cock vanished into Sherlock. Tongues of flame engulfed him, licking its fiery ardor up his erection. Sherlock’s heat infected him as hot tendrils coiled into John’s lower abdomen. Molten passion splayed electrifying impulses into his legs and up to his chest, prompting his body to move of its own volition.

With a languid rhythm John spread the burning incessantly. He realized that he wouldn’t last long. His hands stroked up and down the small notches of Sherlock’s spine, feeling each clench of his lean muscles contracting under his caresses. Sherlock buckled and pressed into the tender touches, seeking any friction. Yet John sensed through their bond the thin line between too oversensitive and the right amount of stimuli. Intoxicating hotness pooled in his lower abdomen, and John recognized that he indeed was too close to the sweet edge of utter ecstasy. He bit his lower lip hard, trying to regain control when his knot suddenly released the first spark of an explosion and John hissed a sharp intake of breath. Looking down at their connection, he realized that his knot had slipped past Sherlock’s sphincter, swollen to a considerable size and now he couldn’t pull out again without causing overstimulation or even pain.

A deep-throated long moan declared that John’s knot sat in place, and Sherlock began to roll his hips against John’s pelvis. “Oh God,” John rasped, his breathing becoming more ragged. He noticed that he was somewhat trapped and confined to smaller yet deeper thrusts.

John leaned forward again, his dominant hand covering Sherlock’s on the headboard while his other hand sought the leaking erection which defined his Omega also as a man. Sherlock gasped startled at the touch and his hips snapped forward, involuntarily pulling John with him.

They set for a quicker, more profound rhythm, their pheromones waltzing around them, fueling each stab with a longing for hot release. John’s hand palmed Sherlock’s cock, stroking over the silken skin, his thumb pressing ever so gently against the slit at the tip to spread sticky fluid. He curled his fingers tighter around the frenulum, increasing the pressure while he pushed deeper and deeper into his Omega’s heat.

“Harder, John!”

Through their bond he knew Sherlock was close too, but he complied with the heady wish and let his hips snap forward. His knot brushed against Sherlock’s inner muscles, rippling his body with pleasure. Sherlock’s long exhaled groan reverberated through his back against John’s chest. Release spurted over his thumb where it rested on the head of Sherlock’s cock, trickling down his knuckles. He loosened his grip a bit as a second burst gushed through the small channel and John sensed his lover’s taut muscles contract with the effort of his shattering orgasm, carrying his Alpha along with each display of pleasure. John realized that this was the moment where two bodies became one. They melted with each other as Sherlock’s heat dragged the Alpha with him, pushing him over the edge and setting his whole being ablaze. He bent over Sherlock’s back. Hot sweat bonded them together as his last thrust relinquished the riptide under his feet, sending him with all-captivating blissful surges toward his own orgasm.

“Fuck!” He shouted against Sherlock’s shoulder, nipping at the sensitive flesh while the relentless current of consuming heat burst out of him in several hot gushes. His heart hammered with fierce cadence in his chest which Sherlock must feel beneath him like roaring thunder.

They stayed like that, waiting for their ragged breaths to even out again, taking off the edge of the feverish burning. Beneath him, John smelled and tasted his Omega on his lips. A slight tremor made Sherlock shift his weight under John, and together they collapsed onto their sides. John tucked his knees into the pits of Sherlock’s, snuggling closer as his arms snaked around his lover’s waist.

A content purr rumbled in Sherlock’s throat and he pressed his back tighter against his Alpha. Their connection set firm, locked with the knot while hot impulses still flushed John’s body. He drew with his hands lazy circles on Sherlock’s chest, a ticklish sensation fueling another stirring within him.

“John,” the baritone boomed in the quiet room, not quite sure to be a plea or a warning.

John’s stroking fingers wandered southward, meeting drying stickiness on the firm planes of his abdominal muscles which flexed deliciously under the caress. _Oh!_ When John’s hand collided with a still very prominent erection, the Alpha stilled. It was at this moment that John realized his own arousal which hadn’t flagged either. The sensation had just subsided to a subliminal throbbing, waiting for another blaze. He fidgeted slightly under the awareness that this hadn’t happened since his adolescence. The subtle movement sent shivers up his spine, bright pulses fanning new flames.

Sherlock gasped as John brushed against his prostate, buckling at the sensation and clenching around the knot. The uncontrolled response elicited a snap of John’s hips forward into the damp heat with a loud groan. He propped himself onto his elbow behind Sherlock, looking down their bonded bodies, relishing the erotic sight. His hand still drew circles at the smooth Omega skin, each touch leaving a blushed mark in the pallor.

A small rocking rhythm set between them as they met in lascivious thrusts. Sherlock took John’s teasing hand and curled the Alpha’s strong fingers around his length, making clear what he wanted. A grin tugged at John’s lips, wrapping one leg around Sherlock’s hip for better leverage, shoving his thighs apart with his foot. Seeing his Omega coming undone in this voluptuous position, spurred the electrifying impulses that sizzled through his inner core. Sherlock’s muscles flexed beneath rippling skin at the mesmerizing pace and he let his head fall back on John’s chest. Soft damp curls tickled his oversensitive skin, but most enticing was his expression – eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flaring with each exhale, and a wavering parted mouth where his pink tongue danced relentlessly over kiss-swollen lips. John lowered his face at the invitation. He sucked at the lush lower lip and brushed his own tongue over the delicate flesh. The kiss mimicked the measure of his thrusts along with the firm strokes over Sherlock’s leaking erection. Under the caresses he felt Sherlock’s cock thickening and twitching, evoking the same sensation in his own prick buried deep in his lover’s heat.

Their movements were calmer now, albeit pleasure built up in recurring tidal waves once again, crashing them toward the colorful embrace of a second release. With the urgency taken from their first coupling, they relinquished their desire for a rather tender love-making, relishing each touch that pushed them into the heady state of vulnerability. Their bodies melded, floating in an endless ocean of subconscious.

John’s breath hitched the moment Sherlock’s release surged over his knuckles. His balls pulled tight and his knot fueled an all-consuming shudder clutching his body. Ripples constricted each of John’s muscles to force him into stillness as he came with a deep groan. The tension faded after a few seconds just to return, prompting a snap of his hips to bury himself even deeper into Sherlock. His Omega’s hand came up and gripped the back of his head. He drew him down for a passionate kiss which exploded in spectral colors behind closed eyelids. The brush of their tongues acted simultaneously with the tension seeping out of their bonded bodies until three crushing riptides washed them away in a languorous undulation of _red_ harmony.

Once again they collapsed onto their sides, panting for each breath as they sucked in the much-needed oxygen, waiting for their thunderous heartbeats to calm down in a mutual rhythm. John embraced Sherlock tightly, arms twining around his pale shoulders while sweat glued them together. He nuzzled his nose against his Omega’s neck, his hand resting on the sternum to sense the strong throb beneath Sherlock’s anatomy. “That was intense,” he mumbled, his lips brushing against damp skin, tasting the salt on his tongue. The peak of his arousal subsided, his cock softening at last.

Sherlock hummed, “Multiple orgasms aren’t unusual during heats or ruts.” His rich baritone already drifted into a yawning drowsiness as he pressed into the snug embrace of his lover. A small huff of breath against his neck was the last thing he remembered as he succumbed to an exhausted sleep.

John watched his Omega for a moment, seeing how the sharp features of consciousness slipped and his muscles slackened under the weight of slumber. The deep rising and falling of his chest under John’s splayed hand set a hypnotizing rhythm which carried the Alpha along into his dreamy mind. Only the hint of a _da capo_ lingered in the farthest corner of his bleary consciousness, reminding him of what would await them the next few days.

***

Sherlock’s heat lasted five days. As much as John had made prepubescent fun of an Alpha’s rut in his youth about his virility, he was exhausted now. The same applied to Sherlock who coped with small cramps and a slight fever now and then. John ensured that he would eat and drink enough to stay well. Feeding Sherlock in 221B proved more than often a strenuous effort, but feeding Sherlock during heat verged on the impossible. Prickly, his restless energy burst forth, betraying a more profound agitation than usual. His sole focus remained on one absolute constant – _John_.

But by morning on the sixth day, Sherlock sensed the difference. He slipped out of bed while John was still asleep and prepared them a breakfast of scrambled eggs and buttered toast with honey.

John hummed an approval into his Omega’s ear after he had padded down the stairs, his lips brushing against the shell, prompting a dance of Sherlock’s hairs at the nape of his neck. But with the hypnotic edge of the heat gone, it just remained a welcome tease to enjoy the moment of intimacy with no further insinuation.

After their breakfast they settled in the living room, turning the telly on to see what they had missed the last few days. The news channel presented a young stylish anchorman, announcing the latest political highlights until he switched to a rather delighted mood as he declared that a British scientist might have found a cure for Morbus. John’s brows shot up. The rut had clouded his mind, drawing his focus only on his Omega. Now they were dragged back to a reality wherein Sherlock might face a choice to live his life as he wanted to. For the first time, his Omega could in fact choose the path without hiding anymore.

John’s eyes drifted to Sherlock who was intently watching the report, his pale blue eyes absorbing every single detail. But what would Sherlock want? A small knot tightened in John’s stomach. “What are you going to do now?”

Sherlock tore his gaze from the telly. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” John hesitated, struggling for words. “If all goes well, I bet, it won’t even take a year to get suppressants legally again. Although it would mean that you need to register as an Omega.”

A snort escaped Sherlock’s mouth. “Your mind’s still too placid, John. The registration will be the next step the governments need to realize. Just because they can create a vaccine to heal Morbus doesn’t mean that all the hidden Omegas suddenly _come out_.” He lifted his chin in defiance, “As long as the politics stick to their unnecessary registration policy most of the Omegas won’t reveal their gender.”

“So, you…” John mused, hesitant, waiting for Sherlock to finish the sentence.

“It’s private, John. Everybody’s gender is private and of no one’s concern but their own. I will definitely not go and register myself in an act of gender-based discrimination. Don’t be so naïve as to believe that after the invention of an official vaccine young and healthy Omegas will easily get suppressants. The governments are more interested in raising a new generation of Omegas within the next twenty years. That’s the only reason for their registration policy.”

John hadn’t thought about it that way. A furrow knitted his eyebrows together, “The registration aside, it will certainly get easier to procure suppressants because the politics will have them produced again.”

Sherlock knew that John was hinting at the possibility of buying contraceptives to suppress his heats which he, according to earlier conversations, despised so much. A smirk curled around his lips, making his eyes crinkle with mischievous laughter lines, “I don’t need suppressants anymore. I have you now.”

Hiding his blush behind the rim of his tea cup, John took a deliberate sip. “So what are we going to do now?”

Sherlock looked at his Alpha for a long moment, a mix of fascination and admiration, before he stood up and closed the gap between them. He reached for the empty tea cup and helped John up to lock lively blue eyes with him. “Going back into battle.”

And indeed, that was what they were made for – the detective and his blogger, friends and lovers, Alpha and Omega. London had reached out its invisible hands, already gripping at them, calling them back to Sherlock’s self-proclaimed battleground. Hiding was no longer necessary. Sherlock could live his life with no restrictions as his Alpha made him biologically invisible for this changed world. And maybe, one day, if the battleground tired them too much, the possibility remained to look for a beautiful place like this small isle to find a new Work.

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s it – the end of the day ;) And what remains for me? All the gratitude from you all by reading, leaving kudos and all the wonderful and lovely comments. And therefore I want to thank you all in return! I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.   
> At this point I also want to leave a special thanks to my three beta-readers without whom the grammar and orthography wouldn’t be as flawless as you might’ve expected from a native speaker; not to mention possible consistency errors – Gasp!   
> There were some requests regarding a sequel, so I want to comment on this here as well… Originally, I haven’t planned on writing a sequel, but, well… Never say never ;) Yet, at the moment, I’m working on another rather longish Johnlock fiction besides my own novel. So it will probably take a while until I can post anything new. 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you’ll find me on Tumblr. [Here](http://www.nymeria578.tumblr.com/) is my blog.

**Author's Note:**

> As this fic is post-HLV I feel obliged to explain that I don’t go too far into any theorizing about what might happen in season 4, I rather use the characters as a plot device for my own fictional purposes within my interpretation of Omega Verse. Sometimes you could get confused about certain passages, believe me, it’s completely intentional and will be resolved later on ;) And I always appreciate comments about what you like or dislike – it fuels my inspiration :D


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